


and you feel your heart (taking root in your body)

by raisindeatre



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, fairly slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:37:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisindeatre/pseuds/raisindeatre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one is now what they were before the war." - Catherynne Valente</p><p>After everything - the comet, the war, the coronation - Katara tries to find the road back to herself. Somewhere along the way, she also finds the road to Zuko.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Must Be Anchored

**Author's Note:**

> This fic marks my first venture both into the writing of a multi-chapter work (one-shots have remained my province up until now) as well as the attempt to write a fic with characters other than the OTP in the background. I can only hope you like it.
> 
> The title of this work is lifted from Richard Siken, who remains, forever, an inspiration.

The night after Zuko’s coronation finds Katara alone in a corner of the palace gardens. She sits by the pond – the pond, which had drawn her here in the first place; for as long as she can remember, the only thing that has ever helped to settle her in times of turmoil has been the sound of water. She listens to the crystalline murmur of the pond, the rustle of birds in the trees, and sighs.

 

The night sky is rich and velvet above her head, the stars flashing like sword points, and it is so, so quiet. Katara pulls some water from the pond, slides it through her fingers like a silver ribbon; in, out, in, out.

 

Out of nowhere, a turtleduck appears, paddling through the water, quacking. It bobs up and down just a few feet away from her, head tilted, and she smiles. She gestures, and the water darts from her hand to the turtleduck, dancing around it as the little animal watches, enraptured. It tries to peck at the sleek ribbon of water, almost overbalances, and Katara laughs despite herself.

 

“Katara?”

 

Fast as lightning – and Katara knows all too well how fast that can be – the water curls around her like a snake. She whirls around. Her hands are encased in ice. Her muscles tense – _battle reflexes_ – before she realizes it is just Zuko, standing near a tree. She lets the water flow back into the pond, sees that the turtleduck has vanished in a squawking flurry of indignation and fear.

 

“Spirits, Zuko!” she exclaims, half-annoyed, half-relieved. “I didn’t hear you at all.” And it’s true, she realizes as he makes his way over to her; he still moves like a runaway, like a fugitive, silent in the night. She wonders how long it will take – if ever – for his acquired stealth to disappear, for him to walk with the commanding presence of a Fire Lord.

 

(She wonders how long it will take for the war to relinquish its hold on all of them.)

 

“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits next to her; she shifts, so that no parts of their bodies are touching. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He pauses, then asks, “What are you doing out here?”

 

“Well,” she says. “I thought I would go looking for the new Fire Lord to congratulate him, seeing as we haven’t seen each other since before the coronation, but I couldn’t find him. Oh, look.”

 

He half-smiles at her, the side of his mouth just barely tilting up. It occurs to Katara that she’d never really realized how rarely Zuko smiles until he does, and despite herself, something in her chest flutters. “I’m sorry about that. I was swept up all day meeting with my new advisers, the Fire Sages – it was crazy.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies. Her tone softens. “Congratulations. I really am happy for you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

 

He winces. “You don’t have to call me that.”

 

“I know, and that’s probably the only time I ever will. But I mean it. I’m so happy for you. How does it feel?”

 

Zuko half-raises a hand, as if to touch a crown resting on his head, but he isn’t wearing one. Tonight, with his hair down and falling over his face, dressed in a simple shirt and pants, he looks like the boy she’s been traveling with these past few weeks.

 

(The boy who took a lightning bolt to the chest for her.)

 

He looks unchanged, but Katara is all too aware that everything around them has changed, is changing. It makes her throat tighten. Zuko lets his hand drop. “I don’t know,” he says. “Strange. A little unsettling. I don’t know yet how much my people trust me. I don’t know how much my advisers do. They’d served my father for a long time, and I’ve been gone for so many years. I’m not sure how… Nothing feels solid yet. I don’t know if they accept me.”

 

Katara understands his uncertainties. They’d all been afraid, today at the ceremony – _usurper_ , some people hiss on the streets, _insolent boy king_ – but the truth that Katara had seen was that the majority of the people in the square had worn nothing but relief on their faces. She’d never stopped to consider that maybe they’d been just as weary of the war as everyone else.

 

“They do,” she says, because how could they not? When he’d knelt before the Fire Sage and risen again with the crown on his head; when he’d looked out at his people below him and declared, voice ringing, _a new era of love and peace_ ; when he’d stopped being the heir to the throne and _became_ the throne – Katara had known, with a burning certainty, that she would follow Zuko anywhere. She had seen that conviction mirrored on the faces of the Fire Nation citizens around her, heard it in their cheers.

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yeah,” she says. “And if they don’t, they will. Give it time.”

 

He exhales so slowly that Katara almost doesn’t realize he’s doing it, but she notices that his shoulders seem lighter. The furrow on his brow has disappeared. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” she replies. “So is that really all you’re feeling? Worried? I would’ve thought you would be happier about being Fire Lord.”

 

“I’m never happy,” he answers, an old joke, and Katara smiles. He looks at her, briefly, before looking back out at the water. “What are you really doing out here, Katara?”

 

“I already told you; I went looking for the new Fire Lord.”

 

Zuko arches his good eyebrow at her. “At the turtleduck pond?”

 

“I thought you might want to hear their petitions,” she parries, but when he doesn’t reply she sighs. “I guess I needed to think. I needed to be alone for a bit.”

 

“Oh.” Uncertainty flickers across his face. “Do you want me to leave?”

 

She smiles a little at that. “Do I want to kick you out of your own garden?”

 

“There are other places I could go. I have a whole palace now.”

 

And Katara cannot let that slide – a wave rears up and splashes Zuko, who splutters indignantly – but she sees that through his dripping hair, his eyes are bright with amusement. “That is the _most_ arrogant thing I’ve ever heard you say – and believe me, Zuko, that’s really saying something,” she says, half-laughing.

 

“I’m Fire Lord now,” he says. “It comes with the territory.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but helps to bend the water out of his clothes. When she releases the water back into the pond in a shimmering cascade, he turns to her. Somewhere along the way they’ve shifted closer to each other; his knee is almost brushing hers. “Katara,” he says, his voice smoke in the dark, “What’s really the matter?”

 

And suddenly Katara doesn’t feel like laughing at all. The amusement disappears. She looks away, blinking. The night seems a little colder.

 

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t. It’s stupid – I don’t know how to say it –“

 

“You can tell me,” he says, his voice gentle, and she wants to. But how can she explain it? How can she explain the thorny tangle in her chest, in her throat? She doesn’t know how to say to Zuko that everything that’s happened since Sozin’s Comet, since Azula’s fall, since Ozai’s defeat, has passed in a blur, in a whirlwind, in a confusing flurry of emotions – emotions that she can’t even explain to herself, let alone anyone else.

 

 _Joy_ is the predominant one – when she had seen her friends after the comet, together and relatively unhurt and alive, alive, _alive_ – the sheer relief had slammed into her ribs, had almost brought her to her knees. It had never occurred to Katara that joy could be just as terrible an emotion as grief, but it had crashed down on her again and again and again, fierce and unrelenting, as she’d hurtled into their waiting arms.

 

Sokka, of course, had been the first one she’d run to, and she’d felt him let out a shuddering sigh as his arms tightened around her. “You came back, you came back,” was all she could say, and her brother had half-laughed, half-sobbed into her hair. “I’m the boomerang guy, Katara, remember?” he’d said. “I always come back.”

 

 _What were the odds?_ Katara had wondered as she fell into them, Toph and Suki and Aang, who had smiled tiredly at her – _it’s over, Katara, I took Ozai’s bending, it’s over, it’s over_ , his words pounding along to the relief in her chest. _What were the odds that all of them, all the people that she loved, the whole of her heart, would make it through? What were the odds that they would all survive the war?_

 

There had been other emotions too. Sorrow, as she’d looked down at Azula, broken and defeated, a stark contrast to the triumph she’d thought she’d feel. Tension, when Zuko had limped into the army barracks and demanded missives be sent out, with messages that were different but the same: _STAND DOWN. FALL BACK. DO NOT ENGAGE. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS_. Terrible, sweeping relief when word had reached them that the fighting had ceased.

 

Zuko shifts next to her now, and she sees his shirt ride up a little. Against his pale skin, the scar burned onto his abdomen is startling, almost violent in its contrast.

 

The scar, of course. That’s an emotion too, one Katara hasn’t allowed herself to look at yet, despite how much she wants to hold it up to the light like a jewel. It feels delicate, in her chest. Raw. Something between gratitude and joy and tenderness.

 

“I’m so happy,” she says quietly, “that the war is over. Of course I am. I can’t believe,” she says, and her voice breaks a little on the word _believe_ , “how lucky we all were. I can’t believe it’s really over.”

 

And she is, too – the past few days have been spent in a kind of limbo, if a happy one. Katara has been content just to be with her friends, to drink in the fact that they’re here, that they’re alive, to recount to each other what happened in the final battle – sometimes, to other people’s irritation, repeatedly. (“Say ‘airship slice’ one more time, Sokka,” says Toph at one point, feet resting casually on a boulder. “I’m sure the rock I’m about to throw at your head would love to hear it.”)

 

But limbos end. Reprieves do not last. The world cannot stop moving forever, no matter how much we might want it to.

 

Zuko remains silent, listening.

 

“But I guess,” Katara continues. “I just… feel lost. I don’t –“ She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. What can she say? That, warped as it might sound, some part of her missed – actually _missed_ – the war? Being on the run? That the delay in Zuko’s coronation had felt, a little, like a stay of execution? That looking at her friends today after he had been crowned, realizing that they would all inevitably go their own ways now, had felt like taking a sledgehammer to the chest?

 

“Suki is going back to the Kyoshi Warriors,” she says. “Sokka might go with her – probably, he probably will. My dad’s returning to the Southern Water Tribe. I don’t know what Toph’s thinking of doing – you know Toph, not the most talkative person around – but I think she might be considering returning to the Earth Kingdom. Aang – well, he’s the Avatar. He’s always going to be on the move, you know?”

 

“I know,” Zuko says. “And I’d kind of guessed about everyone else.” He tilts his head. “I heard Ty Lee’s joining the Kyoshi Warriors too.”

 

“Spirits, don’t remind me. It was so weird seeing her just now and her, like, _not_ trying to kill us. I can’t believe how… nonchalant Suki is about letting her join.”

 

“Ty Lee’s not so bad. I know it’s hard, but I think we can trust her.”

 

“Do you?” says Katara, and then, because she’s been meaning to ask, and Katara has never been one to hold back, she says, “And what about Mai?”

 

Zuko starts a little. His eyes, when he swings his head around to look at her, are intense. “What about her?”

 

“Can we trust her? Now that she’s back in the picture?”

 

“She’s not back in the picture.”

 

“I saw you two together this morning, Zuko,” she says softly. She wants to look away, but his eyes are unshakeable sometimes. Under the moonlight, they are the colour of clear amber. “I thought maybe your injury might need some checking up on. And I guess… I wanted to wish you good luck before the coronation. But Mai was already there, so.”

 

What Katara doesn’t say is how it felt like to see them together. What she doesn’t say is how well-matched they looked, their tall, lean frames and the ease with which they faced each other, their dark hair and pale skin unique to the Fire Nation. What she doesn’t say is how watching Mai step into Zuko’s embrace felt slow and painful, like a muscle tearing.

 

(And maybe it was. The heart is a muscle too.)

 

Silence settles around them, heavy as a promise. She looks away from him, focuses on the pond. Across the water, she can see the turtleduck paddling back toward them.

 

“Mai,” Zuko rasps at last, “came to see me, and I’m grateful for that. I’m glad she got out of prison.” He pauses. “But she’s not in the picture, Katara. Not anymore. I’m not the same person I was, and neither is she.” His voice drops. “Too much has changed.”

 

(Azula’s eyes darting to her; fear rising up in her throat; a crackle of blue lightning _; NO!_ )

 

_Thank you, Katara._

 

_I think I’m the one who should be thanking you._

 

“Yes,” Katara says. “A lot has changed.” She swallows, pushing away the tightness that claws at her throat, burns behind her eyes. She tilts her head back; the stars above are spread out, a thousand tiny lights, and she feels like she might fall into the sky. “I thought, after everything was done, after we’d won, I’d want to go back to the Southern Water Tribe, Zuko. I thought I’d want to go back home.”

 

There is a pause. She doesn’t see the anxiety that flits across his face. She doesn’t see that she’s not the only one who’s afraid of being left alone.

 

“But I _don’t_ ,” she says. “I miss Gran-Gran. I miss everyone. But I don’t want to go back. I can’t even think about going back. I don’t know what I would do there. I can’t imagine going on without everyone. Without Aang there, or Toph –“

 

Katara takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And I just – _Zuko_ ,” she says, and just saying his name feels a little like falling, a little like trusting him to catch her. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she says, and her shoulders start to tremble, and her throat starts to burn, and when she closes her eyes for a moment, one long blink, she feels the tears slide down her cheeks.

 

_I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who to be anymore. I don’t recognise her anymore, the girl I was before the war. The girl I could have been, if not for the war. Everybody I love is leaving me. I don’t want to be alone. I am lost – I am confused – I am adrift – I am –_

 

She feels him hesitate, and then tentatively, he places his arm around her. It strikes her that just a few weeks ago, this would’ve been unthinkable – prickly, awkward Zuko making the first move – _Get over here, Zuko. Being part of the group means being part of group hugs_ – but then they’re both right. A lot has changed.

 

She presses her cheek into his shoulder and closes her eyes. This close, they are pressed together all the way up their sides; shoulders, ribs, hips, legs. He feels warm, and familiar, and Katara focuses on those things. She hears him whisper, distant and faraway, almost as if to himself, almost as if he is lost in a memory, “Who are _you_? And what do _you_ want?”

 

Katara doesn’t cry for long; she is too battle-hardened for that. But when she stops, Zuko doesn’t release her, doesn’t move away. She doesn’t either, and they stay like that for heartbeats upon heartbeats.

 

“I thought I would feel free, after the war,” she whispers. “But I don’t. For so long, I had a purpose. Now I have nothing.”

 

They are quiet for a long, long time. Then:

 

“When I was still in exile,” Zuko says, “a few months after my father banished me, I woke up one morning and I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand waking up and seeing all the reminders of the Fire Nation on my walls, reminding me of what I had lost.”

 

Katara tries to imagine him then, barely thirteen years old, young and angry and with his scar, a mark of his father’s cruelty, freshly seared onto his cheek. She tries to imagine him staring out at the waves, ruined eye and clenched fists and bitterness in his heart. It makes her sad, even if that boy does seem very far away from the one holding her now.

 

“So I pulled everything down,” Zuko continues. He is resting his cheek on top of her head; it’s his unscarred side, so the skin there is warm and smooth. “The flags, the maps, my Fire Nation robes. I brought everything up on deck and started throwing it overboard.”

 

“Didn’t anybody stop you?”

 

“They didn’t try,” he answers. “They didn’t dare.”

 

“I thought it would feel good, seeing it all disappear into the water,” Zuko continues. “And it was, at first, but it also felt like whiplash – it only started hurting later. I didn’t understand – I thought maybe I hadn’t gotten rid of enough, so I threw out more and more; my scrolls, my letters, pictures from home. The whole crew was watching me, but I didn’t care. All I knew was that I needed to feel free.”

 

He shifts. “And that was when my uncle found me.”

 

Katara isn’t surprised by this; she’s seen the way Zuko looks at his uncle, heard the way his voice softens when he speaks of him. She has thought, more than once, that Iroh is evidence of Zuko’s heart; that he is Zuko’s heart outside his chest. And it goes both ways; she knows that the old man loves his nephew more than Zuko has ever been able to love himself.

 

“He asked me, ‘Nephew, what are you doing?’ I told him, ‘Uncle, if I’m going to carry out my mission, I can’t be burdened by all this. We can’t bring our history with us; it’s too heavy. If we’re going to catch the Avatar, we must be weightless.’”

 

“And he said, ‘No, Prince Zuko. We must be anchored.’”

 

He falls silent, and Katara listens to the beat of his heart. She says, “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I guess,” he says, and she can feel his words running all the way down her spine, “because it’s not stupid, what you’re feeling. It’s not stupid to think that freedom is all we want. But freedom can be a terrible thing, Katara. We must have a purpose in this life. We must be anchored.”

 

 _Anchored_ , she thinks. _Yes_. She lets out a long sigh. Despite everything, how tired and confused and lonely she still is, she can’t deny that she feels lighter too. Maybe it’s just the fact that she’s finally cried, finally spoken the truth about what she’s been keeping in her heart, but maybe, too, it’s because of him.

 

“Thank you, Zuko,” she says, and she feels the corner of his mouth lift against her hair, that familiar half-smile she knows even without seeing it.

 

“I think,” he says, “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

 

She laughs a little. “About that,” she says and pulls away to place her hand lightly at the hem of his shirt. She pretends she doesn’t see the pulse in his throat jump at her touch. “I wanted to thank you, again, for what you did at the Agni Kai. For saving my life.”

 

“You don’t have to,” he says, looking down at her hand; her fingers are splayed and just barely grazing the skin of his abdomen. “We’ve been through this.”

 

“I do, though,” she says. “It’s – I can’t thank you enough for that, Zuko. You saved my _life_ – that’s not something you can just shrug off – that was huge, and I know you would have done it for anyone –“

 

It’s the doubt that flickers on his face that makes her falter, makes her feel unsteady. Zuko is a good person, but even the best people do not jump in front of lightning bolts for just anyone. Katara thinks of what this could mean, and quickly pushes it away. _Freedom can be a terrible thing_. Possibility can be, too.

 

“Maybe,” Zuko says, and then he raises his head and looks directly at her. “But I did it for _you_.”

 

They look at each other, and it feels like holding something hot. Katara is the first to look away.

 

He clears his throat. “You said, earlier, that you didn’t want to return the Southern Water Tribe.”

 

“I don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

 

“Then stay,” he says. “Here. In the Fire Nation, I mean. Not in the garden. Although you could do that too if you wanted. I’m just saying –“

 

“What would I do here, Zuko?” she says gently, cutting him off – he’s probably grateful for her interruption anyway. She wasn’t aware that people could blush that deep without passing out.

 

“Actually,” Zuko says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have an idea.”


	2. To Have Too Much Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a far larger creature than I'd envisioned - almost twice as long as the first, so kudos to you if you managed to get through the whole thing! 
> 
> This is also the first time I've ever written the rest of Team Avatar into a fic, and I hope I've managed to capture their voices in a way that feels true. There is a slight Catherine Lacey reference here, for those sharp-eyed enough to see it.
> 
> If you're reading this, thank you. It's readers like you that keep me going.

 

A month in, and it seems that everyone at the House of Healing has become accustomed to Katara’s presence. They barely blink when she comes in now. The air of cool wariness that had greeted her the first few days has dissipated. Instead, they smile at her. She’s even made a few friends.

 

It had been Zuko’s idea, of course. “You’re a healer, Katara, just as much as you are a warrior,” he’d said that night at that pond. “Maybe if you can’t be one anymore, you can be the other.”

 

He’d been the one who’d showed her to the House of Healing. “Maybe you could teach them some techniques – you’re the best healer I know.” 

 

“I can’t, though,” she’d argued. “These people aren’t waterbenders. Some of them aren’t even benders – I don’t have anything I can teach them.”

 

“Just give it a try,” he’d said, and Katara had, and she’d found to her surprise that he’d been right. She’d always thought that her waterbending had been the foundation of her healing abilities – and it is, to some extent, but she’s startled by how much she can tell about someone just by touching them, just by feeling their pain through her palms. _Healing hands_. She’d never stopped to consider that maybe she was more than her bending.

 

 _Look_ , she’d say to an apprentice healer standing by her side, _feel how his bone is broken here? It might seem easier to set it right away – and certainly faster – but if you place your hands here, right here, can you see how they don’t fit right? If we set it here, it’s only going to cause more problems later. So what we’re going to have to do is steel ourselves, and break it here, so we can align his leg properly_. _Sometimes you have to break things for them to heal right_.

 

 _Can you feel?_ she’d say. _She’s not warm yet, but look at her eyes moving under her lids. See how her hands shake. Feel her heartbeat; it’s much faster than usual. The fever is still sleeping, but it’s waiting just under her skin. The good thing is that now we’ve picked it up, we can prevent it – could you make a yarrow poultice?_

 

She had used her waterbending too, of course; when people had been brought in severely injured, or terribly sick, she’d pulled water out of the flask by her hip and willed them better, the rest of the healers watching, rapt, as her hands glowed. But for the most part she moves among them not as a waterbender but as a girl, teaching and being taught.

 

The rest of the healers had been guarded around her at first, cautiously deferential – they all knew who she was, war hero and friend to the Fire Lord, true, but still a stranger, an outsider. But it’s hard to dislike somebody who is so willing to learn, so eager to help, and Katara has always been somebody who makes friends easily. Now they treat her as one of their own.

 

She brings it up with Jyn, the Head Healer, once. She likes Jyn, who is a tall, broad woman with gray hair braided around her head, and hands strong enough to haul bones back into line, but tender enough to cradle newborn infants. She never laughs, rarely smiles, but her quiet strength and steadfast resolve puts every healer at ease. “Master Katara,” she says as Katara sits down next to her in the courtyard. “Is something the matter?”

 

Katara shakes her head. “The opposite, actually. I just wanted to say… thanks. To all of you. For accepting me. I didn’t think it would be this easy – I mean –“ She falters as Jyn watches her, impassive.

 

“On account of my being a waterbender.” Katara winces; she didn’t mean to sound as if she was accusing them of being shallow. “I guess I mean,” she says finally, “Back home, I know it would’ve been hard for my people to accept a firebender in their midst. So thank you.”

 

Jyn takes a sip from her tea. “In their defence, I would think there is ample reason for your people to distrust firebenders. For anyone, really, to distrust firebenders.” Her tone turns wry, and a more than a little regretful. “I know what you mean, Master Katara. But I think you’ll find that here, none of us were happy with the war. None of us would have turned anyone from our doors, Earth Kingdom or Water Tribe or what have you. The act of healing should not be divided by borders, by conflict.”

 

She puts the teacup down, looks at Katara intently. “What, after all, is a healer’s adage, Katara?” she says. “First, do no harm.”

 

* * *

 

So these past few weeks have been relatively happy ones for Katara. It helps, too, that she is not alone. Despite her earlier fears, her friends have all remained in the Fire Nation. As if by some unspoken agreement, none of them want to be the first to leave.

 

Hakoda had been disappointed by that. He’d sailed home three days after Zuko’s coronation, and had tried his best to persuade Katara to join him.

 

“I asked your brother, but he told me he was staying here for a while. And then he told me he was thinking about going to the Earth Kingdom after this,” her father had said that last day, as they’d walked around the palace gardens. “Said he admired the culture! Ha! As if we couldn’t all tell what he really admires there.”

           

Katara had laughed. “I like Suki,” she’d said.

           

“So do I. You know,” Hakoda had said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts carving a necklace of his own pretty soon.”     

 

Katara thought of Sokka, who that morning at breakfast had stuck chopsticks into his mouth and pretended to be a walrus-hawk. “For Suki’s sake, I hope not.”

           

Hakoda had laughed. “You might have a point there. So what do you say, Katara? Care to accompany your father back home?”

           

Katara had looked at her father, his lined face and blue eyes, so dear to her. He’d been gone for so long, and she’d barely had time to get to know him again, what with everything that had happened in the war. _How could you leave us, Dad?_ _We were just so lost without you._

           

“I don’t think so,” she’d said softly. “I’m staying here too, Dad.”

           

Hakoda hadn’t said anything for a while, just continued walking until they’d reached the edge of the highest point of the palace gardens. From there, over the wall, they’d been able to see all the way across the Fire Nation, across the city to the harbour and the sea beyond.

           

“Why?” he’d said finally. “I know your grandmother misses you. Don’t you want to come home?”

           

“I do,” she’d said. “But not yet, Dad. I’m staying here. I know you don’t understand, but I hope you can at least accept it.”

           

“I do understand, Katara. I suppose the Avatar is needed here, and I suppose you’ll be staying with him.”

           

“I’m not staying here for Aang, Dad,” Katara had said. “I’m doing this for me.”

           

Hakoda had raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing. Finally Katara had said, “You could stay too, you know. For a while longer.”

           

Her father had smiled at her sadly when he’d turned to look at her, and she’d seen that his eyes were full of the sea. “No,” he’d said, gently touching her chin. “I’m going home, sweetie. It has been too long since I’ve seen snow.” He’d laughed, low, rusty. “You wouldn’t believe how much I miss it.”

           

Katara can, though. There are moments when she wakes up thinking to look for soft grays and whites and blues, to listen for the absolute stillness only the ice can bring. She’s seen so much of the world the past year – craggy mountains and parchment deserts and rich green forests – but there will always be something of Katara’s heart in the song of the waves, the sunrise breaking out over the tundra, mist-laced in the cold dawn.

           

But still she knows she can’t go back, not yet.

           

So Katara had stepped forward and hugged Hakoda tight, breathing in his warm scent, feeling his strong arms around her. There had been a time when those arms had meant _safety_. There had been a time when they had meant _home_. After her father had left, Sokka had meant all those things. Now, home has also become Aang’s laugh, Toph’s eye-rolls, the smoke of Zuko’s voice.

           

“I love you,” she’d whispered, and Hakoda had kissed her forehead. “As I love you,” he’d answered. “Come home whenever you’re ready, Katara,” he’d said. “Just know we’ll be waiting for you.”

           

“I will. And tell Gran-Gran I said congratulations!” Katara had said. “I can’t believe she’s still got it.”

           

Hakoda had laughed, half-shuddering. “Who would’ve guessed that I would’ve gotten a new father-in-law at my age?” he’d said.

           

“Sokka suggested we call him Grandpakku.”

           

“Maybe,” Hakoda had mused, “it’s for the best he’s staying here. I think the crew would throw him overboard after a week.”

 

* * *

 

 Katara doesn’t spend every day at the House of Healing. There have been certain events that require the presence of all the war heroes, especially the first few days after Zuko’s ascension. They meet wary-eyed Fire Nation generals, attend the meetings held to draft the first official peace treaties, listen to Earth Kingdom and Water Tribe representatives argue over reparation agreements and trade negotiations. They meet village chiefs and historians and health ministers.

 

(“So… the thing is,” Sokka says at a meeting with the latter, while the rest of them shuffle their feet behind him, “Pentapox, uh, isn’t actually a real thing. We kind of made it up.”)

           

It’s dull stuff mostly – Aang and Katara amuse themselves by making mini tornadoes and rain showers under the table, the tinier the better. Toph entertains herself by interjecting at random intervals, “Are you _serious_?” without really listening to the topics being discussed, which, although amusing, leads to a lot of nervous confusion and backpedalling among the ministers, stretching every meeting longer and causing Sokka to kick her under the table. Even Zuko, who listens for the most part with his sharp chin resting in his hand and his gaze intense, alert and asking questions with firm authority, can be found with his eyes glazed over at times. 

           

It’s tedious, but Katara is grateful for these meeting all the same. They’re tangible proof of the tentative steps the world is taking towards peace.

           

A month in, the peace summits are mostly done and over with. There are still meetings, but they mostly pertain to Fire Nation matters now, so it’s Zuko who attends them. Katara hardly ever sees Zuko during the day, and when she does, it’s mostly glimpses of him passing through the corridors, in the gardens, always in deep discussion with his advisers.

           

Aang likes to take Appa out and venture into the city; sometimes, Katara accompanies him. He visits schools, equally as determined to correct the version of Fire Nation history taught there as he is in teaching every Fire Nation child how to dance. Sokka makes a new sword and finds another swordmaster to teach him (“This guy isn’t as good as Piandao, but I guess he’ll Pian-do,” he says, to collective groans), when he isn’t sparring with Suki. Toph spends long, lazy days inside the palace, and can often be found stretched out in the gardens with Iroh cross-legged drinking tea by her side. They make an odd pair, but it’s sweet all the same.

           

It’s a good way to spend the days.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is one of Katara’s favourite times; it’s the only time she can see everyone together before they part ways for the day, even if Zuko often is looking over paperwork as he eats.

           

“So I was thinking about going down to the market later today,” says Sokka. “Anyone want to come with?”

           

“Sorry, Sokka,” says Aang. “Appa and I are taking a day trip to one of the eastern Fire Nation Islands. The village chief there has requested an audience with the Avatar. Plus, I heard that there’s this _huge_ flock of rabbit-gulls there! How cool is that?” 

           

Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. “Aang, that’s _why_ the village chief’s requested you there. Those rabbit-gulls are pests; this is the fourth year in a row they’ve destroyed the village’s crops.”

           

“Oh,” says Aang. “Well, they need to eat too, Zuko!”

           

“Okay, Aang’s out,” Sokka interjects before Zuko can say anything; the Fire Lord rolls his eyes and goes back to reading the correspondence he has in front of him. “Suki, I know you and Ty Lee are busy with Kyoshi Warrior stuff today, and Katara, I know you’re going to that place with all the scary healers, so I guess that leaves you and me, Toph!”

           

“Nope,” she says, taking a big bite of the bread in front of her.

           

“What, are you busy or something?”

           

“Yep. I’m busy _not_ going to the market.”

           

“You know, I would never have expected this of you, Toph,” says Sokka. “Look at you, spending every day in the lap of luxury! I thought you were a rebel! A mutineer! You hated it at your parents’ house, and at Ba Sing Se! And yet I never see you leaving the palace here – I am appalled!”

           

“Just go the market by yourself, Sokka, you big baby,” says Ty Lee under her breath, and Suki laughs.

           

Toph blinks, unruffled. “We were prisoners in Ba Sing Se, Sokka – of course I was going to hate it. And I guess I was kind of a prisoner with my parents as well – I always had to hide my earthbending. Here, I’ve got the best of both worlds: silk pillows _and_ my earthbending. What’s not to like? I’ve already made some interior decorating adjustments to my room – expanded it, added some statues, stuff like that.”

           

Zuko looks up. “You’ve done what?”

           

“Oh, I forgot to fill you in on that. Yeah, my room was a little small, so I knocked over some walls and expanded it. I think the room next to mine might have been a library, or something? I put all the books outside your council room – did you see them?”

             

“I think I might have spotted the huge pile of books in the corridor, yes,” says Zuko dryly. “And the statues?”

           

“Oh, that was just to liven up the space a little bit. No offence, but you Fire Nation folk are terrible at interior design. Plus, it was good practice for my earthbending – do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hands right?”

           

“So the palace floors are ruined?”

           

“They’re not ruined, but I guess they’re not, you know, perfectly flat anymore. Cheer up, Sparky. If it helps, I made a statue of you, too. Great likeness.”

           

Zuko raises his eyes to the heavens. “Toph, you’re blind.”

           

“Wait, I _am_?”

           

Katara smiles behind her hand. This is it, isn’t it? The whole of her heart. The people she loves most in the world, in one room.

           

A servant enters the dining hall and passes a message to Iroh, who has been listening to the conversation with an indulgent smile on his face. He reads it, and exclaims, “Oh, excellent! Thank you!”

           

“What is it, Uncle?” asks Zuko, nodding to the servant, who sketches a bow to him before leaving.

           

“Well,” the old man says, eyes bright, “It’s good news is what it is, nephew! I think we both know what’s happening in two weeks, and I’ve made so many plans, which I’ve just been informed have been approved. I can’t tell you –“

           

“Two weeks?” says Zuko. “What – “ And then his eyes narrow. “Oh, no. Uncle, please don’t tell me this isn’t about what I think it is.”

           

“What’s happening then?” asks Katara.

           

Zuko glares at Iroh, who cheerfully ignores him as he says, “It’s Zuko’s birthday! He’ll be turning seventeen, and we’re going to hold a ball in his honour –“

           

There’s a flurry of cheers and whistles from everyone except Zuko. “A _ball_?” he says in disbelief. “Uncle, are you kidding me?”

           

"I most certainly am not. A man’s seventeenth birthday is no small matter, especially when it’s the Fire Lord’s, Zuko,” says Iroh reproachfully. Then he smiles at everyone. “I thought about making it a surprise, but I could really use all of your help to plan this! I’ve got the caterers narrowed down to three, but the invitations are a bit of hassle, and –“

           

“ _Uncle_ ,” Zuko interrupts irritably. “I can’t have a ball for my birthday. Look, I have meetings every day, and so much paperwork, and –“

           

“I’ve sorted all of that out,” says Iroh, waving the message in the air. “I thought about having the whole day cleared, but I knew you would never agree to that, so it’s been decided that all meetings that day will only be until noon. That gives you the afternoon to rest and get ready. The ball will only be held at night, anyway, Zuko, and you’re not doing anything then, are you?”

           

Zuko’s eyes slide to Katara’s, briefly, and her heart barely has time to jump before he turns back to Iroh and says, “And the money? How are we funding this?”

           

“Oh, lighten up, Sparky,” groans Toph. “A party sounds great!”

           

“I will not have any taxes spent on this ridiculous event! I’ve only just assumed the throne, what will people think if I start throwing money away on parties after a month –“

           

“I imagine,” Iroh cuts in, “they’ll understand, seeing as it’s your birthday. Your people respect you, Zuko,” he says quietly. “They know what you’ve done for them. They know that you’ve brought them peace. You underestimate them.”

           

Zuko says nothing, but something in the way he swallows, something in the way he blinks, makes him look younger suddenly, so much more uncertain. Iroh has long been the only one, Katara knows, capable of bringing out the vulnerability in him.

           

“You’ve been working hard, Zuko, anyone can see that. Take a night off. They’ll understand,” his uncle continues. “In any case, if it’s the money you’re worried about, rest assured the crown is not supporting the expense.”

           

“Then who is?” Zuko says finally. He looks around the table accusingly, which makes Katara want to laugh – something she gives in to when Sokka says, “Don’t look at us, Fire Lord! If I had that much spare money lying around I’d get my own palace instead of hanging out at yours. No offence.”

           

“I am,” says Iroh. “When I accompanied you to look for the Avatar, I left a fair bit of my wealth here, in the Fire Nation. It’s been restored to me, and what better way to spend it?”

           

Katara knows that Zuko is about to come up with several retorts to that question, and Iroh must know it too, because before he can say anything the old man says, “Let me do this for you, Zuko. Please.”

           

There is a beat of silence, and then Zuko rasps, “You’ve done more than enough for me.”

 

Suddenly Katara is embarrassed, and she can tell by glancing at her friends that she isn’t alone in feeling this way; the rawness in Zuko’s voice, the tenderness in Iroh’s gaze, the ferocious affection between them – the scene is almost painfully intimate. To exist is to intrude.

           

“Zuko,” the old man says gently, “I will never have done enough for you.”

           

Zuko closes his eyes for a moment. His scar looks almost violet in the early morning sunlight, and it makes Katara think for a moment of the other scar that marks him, the one seared onto his abdomen.

 

(She thinks, not for the first time, that she’s placed her hands on both.)

           

“Okay,” he says, and Katara watches as he turns into the light of Iroh’s smile like a sunflower. “Thank you, uncle.”

 

* * *

 

Katara’s buoyant mood lasts all the way to the House of Healing. (“Iroh,” she heard Aang say before she left, “If you’re thinking of having some animal entertainment for Zuko’s party, I know some rabbit-gulls who might fit the bill…”)

           

She’s sitting among the apprentices, listening to a master healer explain what to do in the event of heat strokes – a very real danger now that the Fire Nation summer has begun to rear its head – when suddenly there is a flurry of commotion in the corridors. There are raised voices and tripping footsteps, and then a woman is standing in the doorway staring at Katara. She is slender and wary, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, and there is a baby in her arms.

           

“You’re the waterbender,” she says, and there is so much fear and hope and desperation in her voice it makes Katara want to flinch, even as she is getting to her feet. “Help my child,” the woman says, thrusting the baby at her, her golden eyes wide. “Please, please, I’m begging you –“

           

Suddenly, Jyn is there. She takes a step towards the woman, who recoils. “Zia,” Jyn says gently but firmly, “Give me the child.”

           

“No,” the mother says, “She can help, I know she can, we’ve all heard the stories, she saved the Fire Lord’s life –“

           

“She can’t heal this,” Jyn says, and the woman – Zia – spits in defiance. “What do you know? She hasn’t even tried!”

           

“Yes,” Katara says, moving to take the baby. “Jyn, let me do this. What’s wrong?”

           

“You can’t heal this,” Jyn repeats, staring at her, and Katara sees that despite her firm insistence, the other woman is tired, so tired. She hesitates, and then seems to slump in resignation, taking a step back. Katara takes the child from Zia’s unresisting arms and looks. The baby – a girl, she sees now – looks healthy enough, if a little thin, a little pale, but then she places her hand on the child’s forehead –

           

\- and _flinches_ –

           

“I don’t understand,” Katara says, and Zia closes her eyes as tears begin to seep out from under her lids, silver rolling down her cheeks like mercury.

 

* * *

 

“The child was born with two hearts,” Jyn tells her later, after Zia has been escorted to a room and given a sleeping draught; they sit by her bed as she turns and tosses in her sleep, restless. The baby is lying in a cot next to her mother’s bed, quiet and still as the grave already.

           

“I didn’t… I didn’t know that was possible,” says Katara. “But… what’s wrong with that? I mean, I know it’s _unusual_ , but why is that a bad thing? Surely it’s better to have two hearts than be born with none?”

           

“There isn’t room,” says Jyn softly, “in a human’s chest for two hearts, Master Katara. The child’s lungs have been compressed to accommodate them, but that means that she isn’t getting enough oxygen, enough air to breathe.”

           

“How do you know this? Have you seen this before?”

           

“Once,” the other woman replies. “When I was a child, in my village. A baby was born just like this.”

           

“What happened to her?” asks Katara, although she already knows.

           

“She died,” Jyn says flatly, and Katara knew that, but what she didn’t know was –

           

“She was smothered,” the healer continues. “She’d been struggling for breath for days, and her parents couldn’t take it anymore.” She looks at Katara’s stricken face. “It was a kindness, Master Katara. A quicker death than the one the child would have otherwise succumbed to.”

           

“First, do no harm,” Katara whispers, and Jyn flinches, but says nothing.

           

“I can save her, though,” Katara says. “I can heal her, can’t I?”

           

“There’s nothing to heal,” the other woman says, a little sharply. “This isn’t a wound, or an injury. What can you do?”

           

“Something,” Katara retorts, but she knows deep down that Jyn is right. When she’d touched the baby earlier, she’d tried to push her powers into the child’s skin, extend it into the body and fix it, _fix_ her – but she’d felt her energy skitter right over the baby’s chest, sliding back into Katara’s fingers. There was no injury to heal, no wound to close. This was something else. An extra organ is not something that can be cured.

           

 _Two hearts_ , Katara thinks. _What a terrible thing to have too much of._

           

Fatigue settles onto her shoulders, sinking its claws in, making her bow her head. The happy sunlit days of the past month seems to fade, leaving her here, look, in this dark room where she can hear death breathing. Four people with five hearts between them, and Katara can feel her own breaking.

           

She’d forgotten, for a while, for a blissful spell, that people can die even during peacetime. She doesn’t know why she thought that the end of the war would mean the end of death. She just knows that she’d fought so hard for children like the baby in front of her now to grow up, to _live_.

           

“How long?” she says, and Jyn doesn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “A few days at the most,” she replies, and then, “It will break Zia’s heart.”

           

Katara studies the mother’s face; in her sleep, her eyes wander under the lids, restless. Her hands twitch. She looks exhausted, her face drawn, dark shadows under her eyes.

           

“The baby’s not dead yet,” Katara says. “It’s not too late.” Jyn says nothing, but her silence is testimony enough. “It’s not,” she says again, but her voice sounds thin and hopeless, even to herself.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is one of Katara’s favourite times; the lazy, sunlit mornings when she is laughing with the people she loves. Her other favourite time is the night, which she spends, more often than not, with Zuko.

           

It starts the night after Zuko’s coronation, when she’d cried into his shoulder, listened to his raspy voice comfort her (“We must be anchored,” she can hear him saying now, weeks later.) The night after that, she’d been overcome by a wave of insomnia and decided to wander the gardens again, thinking to stop by the turtleduck pond – the sound of water, has, after all, always been able to settle her.

           

What she hadn’t expected to see was Zuko, sitting alone under the tree, legs stretched out in front of him as he stared out across the pond. It had felt like a reversal of the night before, and she’d taken a moment to study him, his shoulder outlined against the stars, his jaw normally so sharp, looking soft in the moonlight, almost like she could fit it into the palm of her hand.

           

She must’ve made a sound, because he’d whipped his head up to look at her, body tense, before relaxing again. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he’d asked, his voice wry.

           

“I could ask you the same thing,” she’d replied, padding over to sit next to him.

           

“I haven’t been sleeping well for a while, actually,” he’d said, running his hand through his hair, and the thing is, Katara knows this. She remembers nights from Ember Island, from the Western Air temple, how she’d sometimes glimpsed Zuko curled on his side, eyes reflecting the fire when everyone else had been asleep. She knows that he sleeps light, like a cat, capable of being awake and alert in a heartbeat. _Battle reflexes_.

           

“Mmmm. Me neither.”

           

They’d sat in companionable silence for a while before Katara had said idly, “What did you used to do when you were a kid? When you couldn’t sleep?”

           

“What do you mean?”

           

“I mean… I remember, when I was a kid, my Gran-Gran used to make me some hot milk. Worked like a charm; it used to be the only thing that would get me to sleep.”

           

“Do you want some now? I’m sure I could get a servant to bring you some.”

           

“Yes,” she’d said, deadpan. “I would love to hear the Fire Lord ask for some hot milk. But you didn’t answer my question.”

           

Zuko had looked up at the sky for a moment. “My mother,” he’d said, and Katara had caught her breath. “Whenever I couldn’t sleep, she used to tell me stories.”

           

 _I’m sorry_ , is what she’d wanted to say. But instead: 

           

“Have you ever heard the story of Tui and La?”

           

Zuko had tilted his head. “No?”

           

“Okay, well, the legends say the moon was the first waterbender. Our ancestors saw how it pushed and pulled the tides and learned how to do it themselves."

           

“Are… are you telling me a bedtime story right now?”

           

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

           

“Yes! I’m just wondering.”

           

“Maybe I am. So, anyway, the moon. First waterbender,” Katara had said, trying to ignore the small smile that had tilted the side of Zuko’s mouth, the intent way he’d listened to her speak.

           

When she’d finished, there had been silence for a moment. Then: “Thank you, Katara,” Zuko had said. “You’re welcome,” she’d said. “I mean, you saved my life, and all. A bedtime story isn’t a bad trade.”

           

He’d laughed. “Do you have to keep bringing that up? That’s what we do, isn’t it? We save each other.”

           

Katara’s heart had skipped, and Zuko had looked uncertain for a moment before clearing his throat. “So, um, have you ever heard the story of the dragon and the emperor?”

           

“No,” Katara had said, a smile creeping over her face. “Tell me.”

           

That’s how the nights go, most of the time, the two of them sitting in the dark trading stories. Zuko’s voice is always smoke and velvet in the night, and Katara lives for the moments when she can pull his laugh – which always sounds rusty from lack of use – out of his throat, at his surprised expression every time she does. He tells her the tale of the fox-snake and the sun goddess. She tells him the story of the ice whale and the three stars, and their voices weave together, into the late hours.

           

 _Yarn_ , is what she thinks. That’s what the two of them are doing, spinning yarns. She knits a shawl out of the stories they tell, something to shrug on and keep her warm when she is feeling cold and alone, woven out of the way his eyes look when he is talking, the way he slips into character at his most intense, gesturing grandly, changing the inflections in his voice.

           

That isn’t all they do. There are times when they spar, when both of them are feeling too wound up and restless to sit still. They circle each other, and when Zuko’s eyes gleam at her across the distance, she doesn’t know if she is predator or prey – but then, has she ever, when it comes to him? Katara has accepted that it has been a long, long time since she has been able to distinguish the patterns of their movements, impossible to find the exact demarcations when _escape_ became _pursuit_ became _together_.

             

They whirl and clash, draw close before spinning away again, bursts of fire and the crash of water breaking the silence of the night. There are times when she dances so close to him she can feel every inch of his frame ghosting against hers as he echoes her, flames leaping around him. There are times when she thinks, breathless and half-formed as his lean frame twists to dodge the ice knives she sends flying towards him, retaliating with a shower of sparks, _my mirror_.

           

And then there are the times when they do neither. Zuko’s duties as Fire Lord are endless and varied; there are times when they stretch out across the grass and read through the many, many letters and proposals he gets sent daily. There are times when Zuko sits quiet by her side, drumming his fingers as he works his way through the newest amendments to the peace treaties, as she traces patterns idly on the silver surface of the lake.

           

For all that these nights are considered, generally, a standing appointment, there are times when neither of them can make it; times when Katara has a night shift at the House of Healing, when she has dinner plans with Aang and Sokka and Toph and Suki, when Zuko’s meetings with his advisers stretch late into the night.

           

For these times, though, they’ve developed a system to inform the other: Katara had laughed, long and hard, the first time Zuko had been unable to join her; she’d been waiting for him, tilting her head, when the turtleduck had paddled its way across the lake with a message tied around its neck.

           

So there are many things they do with their nights, Zuko and Katara, but what she associates most with them is the stories they tell, the tales they weave together.

           

“How do you know so many of these stories, anyway?” Katara had asked him once after he’d finished telling her about the merchant and the Earth Kingdom princess.

           

“My mother,” he’d replied. “Uncle Iroh. And to be honest, there aren’t that many things to do for three years on a boat, Katara.”

           

She’d smirked. “Don’t tell me – reading fairy tales was an essential part of your hunt for the Avatar, right?”

           

He’d blown a gentle handful of sparks into her hair, causing her to squeal and twist away from him. “It worked, didn’t it? I found him in the end.” He’d frowned. “How do _you_ know all these stories?”

           

“Gran-Gran. If you think being on a boat is dull, try winter at the South Pole; months of cold and quiet with nothing to do but listen to stories around the fire. It used to drive Sokka crazy.”

           

“It sounds nice. How is your grandmother, anyway?” he’d asked, guilt clawing at the sides of his eyes. “She, um, seemed nice the last time I met her.”

           

“Zuko, you grabbed her by her parka demanding to know where we were hiding Aang the last time you met her.”

           

He’d winced. “I didn’t say _I_ seemed nice the last time I met her.” Katara had let him squirm for a while; she has long since forgiven him, of course, but she can’t deny that he’d been a real jerkbender for most of their acquaintance. “Um. Sorry about that.”

           

She’d shaken her head, smiling. “It’s okay. She’s doing good; I just got a letter from Dad a few days ago. Apparently she and Master Pakku are really happy together.”

           

“That’s nice.”

           

Katara had seen the shame on Zuko’s face still, so she’d nudged him. “Hey. If it helps, I think she’d really like you now.”

           

He’d looked at her, had smiled tiredly. “You think so?”

           

“I do. Once she’s seen how much you’ve changed, how much you’ve done for us? Yeah.” Katara nods. “Not a lot, at first. And she’ll probably keep bringing up the whole grabbing-the-parka thing, for, oh, forever. But she’d like you.”

           

“Good to know,” Zuko had said. “I think I’d like her too.”

           

“You do?”

           

“If she’s anything like you?” Zuko had asked. “I think we’d get along just fine.”

 

* * *

 

Now, when she sees Zuko sitting under their tree, the grief and tension that’s been curled in her chest all day loosens – it doesn’t dissipate, but it lets her take in a deep, shuddering breath.

           

He looks up from the paper he’s reading, illuminated by the spark dancing in his cupped hand. “Hey, there you are. I’ve been going over this proposal for this dam that they’re thinking of building in one of the eastern villages for hours now. It’s 22 pages, Katara! I’m tempted to just approve it, but apparently there are some environmental concerns that need to be taken into account. I know this is part of being Fire Lord, but - ”

 

He looks at her, a little more closely. The flame in his hand dims. “What’s wrong?”

           

“Nothing,” she says brightly. “I mean, apart from the fact that your birthday is in two weeks and you didn’t tell me. I thought we were friends!”

           

He rolls his eyes. “We are, but I’d rather read a hundred more of these dam reports than celebrate my birthday.” He pauses, and for a moment she thinks he might make a joke of it, the way Sokka would ("Dam reports, get it? Like damn? Gee, tough crowd.") But instead:

 

“What’s really the matter?” he asks, and Katara feels a dizzying sense of déjà vu, to that night weeks ago. He’d helped her then; maybe he could help her now.

           

So she tells him about Zia’s baby, about the child whose hearts will end up crushing the air out of her. She watches his eyes darken; sometimes it hits her that Zuko is the Fire Lord, that he feels as his people feel, their king and their leader. It hits her, sometimes, that Zuko would do anything for his people, would take on all their burdens and pains and sorrows if it meant they didn’t have to.

           

“That’s terrible,” he says when she’s done. He doesn’t tell her it will be okay, and Katara appreciates that.

           

“Jyn says there isn’t anything I can do for her. But I can try! There has to be something I can do. I’ll do anything to save her, Zuko.”

           

“Yes,” he says. “I know you would.” He doesn’t say _but maybe you can’t_. He doesn’t say _Jyn knows more about this than we do_.

 

Zuko knows the value of silence, of listening - that lesson has been cruelly seared into his cheek after he spoke out in a war council meeting once, so long ago - and so he stays quiet. He doesn't move when she leans her head against his shoulder - a familiar position for both of them, now - and they stay like that for hours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. LISTEN. I am aware that it is technically impossible for humans to have two hearts, but I plead artistic licence. 
> 
> I promise Zuko's upcoming birthday party will be relevant in following chapters, and is not just my attempt to give the poor boy more parties, which he desperately needs.
> 
> Finally! It is very important to my heart that Zuko and Katara spent the nights after the war telling each other stories. In my defence, we don't know that they didn't. To slightly paraphrase Lady Melisandre from Game of Thrones, the night is dark and full of fluff.


	3. The Colour of Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! If you're still reading this, thank you :)
> 
> There are a few Catherynne Valente references here . I hope you like it!

The child lives a day longer than Jyn expects her to, and then a day longer, and then a day longer.

           

Katara still hasn’t figured out how to heal the baby, and it scares her badly when she starts wheezing the day after Zia brings her in, her little chest rising and falling rapidly, her face screwed up in pain – pain mirrored on her mother’s face as she watches, helpless.

           

But they find that when Katara holds her, blue light glowing from her palms, cool water bathing the child’s chest, she seems to breathe a little easier. It never stops being strange for Katara, to feel the double time of the girl’s hearts under her skin, a steady machine beating in fours. Katara cannot cure her, but she is able to ease the baby’s breathing, enough so that she can slump back into rest, too exhausted even to suckle, which doesn’t help her health any. They take turns dripping milk into the child’s mouth.

           

Jyn doesn’t tell Katara that all she is doing is buying time; that soon nothing can save the baby. She knows from the girl’s stubborn set of jaw, the determination in her blue eyes, that such words would be useless. There are some things some people can only learn for themselves.

           

Katara asks Zia one day, as she cradles her daughter, “Does she have a name?”

           

“No. When she was born it was clear what she was. The people in my village said it would be bad luck to name her, seeing as she was so close to the spirit world.”

           

Katara says nothing, but looks instead at the way the sun slants to illuminate Zia’s eyes. She knows those eyes are a common feature of the Fire Nation – passed out in equal measure, it would appear, with that pale skin and dark hair – but there are still moments when she marvels at how lovely those shades of gold and amber are. She knows those eyes are common here, but they will always remind her of Zuko, the first person she met with eyes the colour of sunlight glancing off clear water, so striking she’d seen them feet away, through the slit of a helmet, against the blues and whites of her old icy world, before she’d been catapulted into the new one.

           

“Her father died in the war,” Zia continues, her voice soft. “And she is all I have.”

           

She pauses, then adds, even softer, “But I’ve always liked the name Rhiana.”

           

“Rhiana, then,” Katara says, and reaches out to take the child as she begins to stir and gasp.

 

* * *

 

It’s startling, the difference between the sombre mood at the House of Healing and the barely contained excitement at the royal palace as Iroh prepares for Zuko’s birthday. Katara doesn’t share the details, but she tells her friends enough about her situation that she is exempt from party planning.

           

 _Diametric_ , is what Katara thinks when she returns from the tightness in Zia’s eyes to the bustle of Iroh walking down the corridors deep in conversation with a caterer, saying, “I’m thinking mei wine; I hear from the vintners that there’s been a good crop this year…” The hushed quiet of the patients is a stark contrast to Sokka chasing after Momo who is running off with the fabric samples in his mouth, as Aang is doubled over laughing. (“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Katara hears Sokka saying to Momo later as the lemur blinks at him. “Well, it’s not. This is why Appa is my favourite! You know what I love most about Appa? His sense of humour!”)

           

It doesn’t even seem like they could be part of the same world; opposite ends of the spectrum. But Katara is starting to see that this is life; that this is how the world moves. The end of war does not mean the end of death. And the presence of grief does not mean the absence of joy.

           

She wakes one morning, abruptly, to someone tapping her on the shoulder. Through slitted eyes she can see _pink_ and _brown_ and _bright eyes_ , and that is enough to make her bolt upright, the water from the glass on her bedside table darting to her hand, making a tiny dagger. Ty Lee looks hurt for a moment, but then her smile returns, bright as ever, if a little brittle.

           

“Easy,” says Suki from where she is leaning against the doorway. She is smiling, but her eyes are wary, and Katara instantly feels bad. She knows that Suki has long learned to trust Ty Lee again – “You’d be surprised by the friendships you make through prison bars,” Suki says once, dryly – but she still hasn’t managed to bring herself to, not yet. Forgiveness does not come easily to Katara.

           

She lets the water flow back into the glass, runs her hand through her hair. “Sorry! I’m sorry. What’s the occasion?”

           

Ty Lee says, “We’re going shopping!”

           

Katara blinks. “We’re… what?”   

           

“Zuko’s ball is the day after tomorrow, and none of us have anything to wear. Well, I do. But I know that none of you do, so consider this an intervention. And you know, it’d be good if you guys were with me, because I know all the good places, and I know what the _in_ looks are now, and –“

           

Katara glances at Suki, who shrugs. “What’s wrong with the clothes I have now?”

           

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with them,” says Ty Lee cheerfully.  “But trust me, Katara, you don’t want to wear them to this kind of thing. We need something a little more… well, formal.”

           

“Is that really necessary?”

           

“Come on, Katara,” says Suki. “We’ll round up Toph and make a real girl’s day of it. It might be fun.”

           

“I’m sure it will be,” she says apologetically, thinking of Rhiana. “But I don’t know if I can get away; I have a lot to do.”

           

“I’ve already talked to Jyn,” Suki replies. “She said it would be fine for you to go with us – it’s your day off, anyway, isn’t it?”

           

It’s true, but Katara has been spending her days off at the House of Healing anyway, anything to help, even if, as she is too afraid to admit to herself, she seems to have less and less effect as the days go on; now Rhiana has been struggling for breath even when Katara holds her, her tiny lungs crying for air, wheezing rasps. Zia’s eyes have become those of a prisoner on death row.

           

“Yes… but I don’t know if I should.”

           

“Why not?” asks Ty Lee, idly twirling her braid around her finger, and for some reason this irks Katara.

           

“I just… _clothes shopping_? Some of us have better things to do, Ty Lee! I don’t have time for something so trivial. Who _cares_ if the Fire Nation nobles don’t like what I’m wearing? I don’t!”

           

Suki takes a step forward, but Ty Lee waves her back. “Trivial?” she says, and there is a layer of steel in her normally airy voice that Katara hasn’t heard before. “That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I’m just an airhead who wastes her time on stupid things like parties and dresses and boys!”

           

Katara doesn’t know what to say to that, because to be honest, that’s exactly what she thinks.

           

“Who cares if the Fire Nation nobles don’t like what you’re wearing? _You_ should care, Katara! We all should! This is going to be the first time all of us are going to be among the people, especially the higher-ups, in a social setting. It’s a very different thing from signing peace treaties, or trade negotiations, but it’s not any less important.”

           

Ty Lee’s eyes flash. “They’re all going to be watching us, you know. We’re the heroes of the Hundred Year War, and they’re going to be making judgments, even as they smile at us. You think the certainty of Zuko’s rule is based on whether he rules fairly, and the kind of trade policies he implements, and the fact that he helped to end the war, and it will, but it depends on more and less than that too. It depends on things like this, Katara, how he acts on occasions like this, and to a lesser extent, how _we_ act on occasions like this; we’re a reflection of him, don’t you see?”

           

She straightens, cool and unassailable, and Katara is intimidated of Ty Lee in an entirely different way, separate from the way she can sail through the air and block Katara’s bending in less than a heartbeat, a respect grounded in the way Ty Lee can navigate through this sea of politics in a way none of them can. “I know you don’t like me, Katara, but believe me when I say that this is important. Not just for us, but for Zuko too.”

           

“I didn’t know,” Katara says, ashamed. She wants to tell Ty Lee that it’s not that she doesn’t like her; it’s only that it’s hard for her to trust someone who’d once incapacitated her with just a few jabs. She wants to tell Ty Lee that she understands now; that she sees her in a completely different light.

             

When you grow up with six identical sisters, you will do anything to stand out. When you are an acrobat, you become an expert in contorting yourself into spaces just so you can fit in. And somewhere between these two roads, Ty Lee is standing in a middle ground that she has forged, through cheer and goodwill and battle reflexes lightning-quick.

           

 _Diametric_ , is what Katara thinks. Opposite ends of the spectrum, in the form of the girl standing in front of her now, dressed all in pink with steel in her spine.

             

“I guess you wouldn’t,” Ty Lee says, voice softer now. “But I grew up here. I know how these politics works. It sucks, but believe me when I say these people are people that we need to impress. Believe me when I say, keep a smile in your back pocket and learn to use it like a knife; sparingly, and only when it can do the most damage.”

           

She shrugs. “It’s just a different kind of war, Katara. When I say, _we’re going shopping_ , what I mean is, _we must find our armour_.”

 

* * *

 

Once they wake Toph up – which is to say, once they dodge the rocks she chucks at them for waking her, shove her into the shower, and eat breakfast – they set off to the city. Ty Lee leads the way, and Katara quickens her pace to fall into step beside her.

           

“Hey,” she begins, a little awkwardly. “Ty Lee. I just wanted to say… It’s not that I don’t like you, or anything. I just –“

           

“I know,” says Ty Lee. “I understand, Katara. It’s just…” She bites her lip. “I hope we can be friends, someday, you know. Real friends.”

           

Katara looks at the other girl, properly, and sees what she hasn’t until now: the sadness that tugs at the side of her eyes, that hides under her smile. She hasn’t realized how lonely Ty Lee must be, with Azula imprisoned and Mai not here.

           

“Of course,” she says, and then, “How’s Mai doing, anyway? I haven’t heard news of her in a while.”

           

“Neither have I,” says Ty Lee, and Katara is sorry she’s brought it up. “I got a letter from her a few weeks ago, but nothing since then. I know she’s back in the Earth Kingdom, with her family.” She shrugs. “I think she’s doing okay. I hope so. I hope she’s happy.”

           

“So do I,” says Katara, because even if she doesn’t know Mai, she knows about friendship, and she knows that the one Ty Lee and Mai share is real. It’s how she feels about Aang, and Toph, and Suki.

           

A slow, mischievous smile creeps onto Ty Lee’s face. “For what it’s worth,” she says, eyes sparkling, and Katara realizes that for all that the other girl can be grave, can pull _serious_ on like a suit of armour, her natural state is _playful_. “I think you and Zuko make a much better couple than him and Mai. I love them both, but they just weren’t good for each other.”

           

Katara splutters. “Zuko and I aren’t a couple!”

           

“Oh, please. I see the way you two look at each other.” She giggles. “I can always smell out a good romance, Katara. Call it one of my many talents.”

           

“We’re not –“

           

“You don’t have to worry! I’m not mad, or anything!” She pauses, thoughtfully. “Maybe I should be, on Mai’s behalf or something, but like I said, they weren’t good for each other. And frankly, I’ve never quite seen the point of holding grudges over things like that.”

           

“Oh, Spirits.”

           

Ty Lee’s laugh rings out, high and delighted. “I won’t tell anyone! I know you probably want to keep it a secret from everyone. Especially, Sokka, right? What, would he pull the whole overprotective-big-brother act or something?”

           

“Oh, Spirits.”

           

Ty Lee glances behind them, where Suki and Toph are trailing behind. She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, don’t tell Suki this, but I’ve always thought your brother was kind of cute.”

           

“ _Oh, Spirits!"_

 

* * *

 

“So, what are we looking for?” Ty Lee asks them in the first shop they enter, head tilted. “I was thinking red might be a nice touch – solidarity with the Fire Nation and all that, yadda yadda yadda – but it might be good to wear the colours of your own nations too. A symbol of unity, you know?”

           

“No red,” Suki says, quietly but firmly.

           

Toph yawns. “Listen, everything’s going to look the same for me, anyway. So just find me something that makes me look good, okay?”

           

Ty Lee salutes her, then turns to Katara. “What about you?”

           

“Blue,” she answers; there’s no other colour she’d rather wear.

           

“Okay, then,” says Ty Lee. “Let’s go!”

              

It turns out Ty Lee is invaluable in the hunt for a proper dress, although Katara supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. She weaves her way through the streets with an acrobat’s grace, turns away catcalling vendors with a cheery wave, dips in and out of shops Katara would be too afraid to enter with a practiced ease. She looks at racks with a hawk’s eye, swooping down to pick out clothes that look dubious on the hanger, but look like a dream once you slip it on.

           

The owners of all the boutiques they visit are accommodating enough; in fact, they almost fall over themselves for the honour of serving the war heroes. The one thing Katara is uncertain about is the style Ty Lee insists on – it appears the fashion trend that’s all the rage in the Fire Nation capital is, well… revealing.

           

“It’s nice,” Suki says dubiously after Ty Lee presents her with a dress. “But where’s the rest of it?”

           

“Only my feet need to be bare, circus freak,” says Toph after Ty Lee dumps a dress into her arms.

           

“Circus freak is a compliment,” replies Ty Lee absent-mindedly. “Katara, what do you think of yours?”

           

Katara looks down at the dress she’s holding. “Um.” She isn’t a prude, but growing up in the South Pole, the clothes she’s worn most of her life have been built for warmth and practicality; thick, bulky furs, sturdy cloth. She’d had her moments of luxury in Ba Sing Se, but nothing she’d worn there had been like this: velvet that fits like a dream, silk that whispers against her skin, and so many cutouts it makes her blush.

             

She knows that it’s sultry most of the time here in the Fire Nation – even now, at barely ten in the morning, the air feels thick and drowsy – but surely there are better ways to keep cool. “I just don’t think this is my style?”

           

Ty Lee rolls her eyes at all of them, standing with her hand on her hip. She’s wearing a sleek red velvet confection that clings to her figure, with a neckline that dips so low it makes Katara avert her eyes. “You guys are impossible. This is _the_ look in the Fire Nation now –“

           

“Yes,” Suki interrupts, smiling. Katara knows this smile of hers, and loves it; sly but affectionate, the way she looks at Sokka sometimes. “But we’re not Fire Nation.”

           

So it goes. Ty Lee gives up, and that’s how Suki and Toph end up with dresses more suited to their tastes, silk and cotton that skims over their curves so that there is ease of movement; something they both insist on. Toph’s is pale green and yellow, colours that flatter her pale skin, bring out the sleek highlights in her dark hair. Suki’s is a darker, forest green, the colour so rich it makes Katara dizzy; Suki twirls and watches her full skirt spin with her, delighted. “It’s like my Kyoshi Warrior outfit!”

           

Katara’s dress is blue, darker than the usual light shades she wears every day, almost black. It’s the colour of the night sky, the colour of midnight, and the silver that dusts her neckline and hem only serves to reinforce the effect; stars against blue velvet. It hugs her figure lightly, darts in at the waist, flares out to the floor. It flatters her every curve, brings out her eyes. When she steps out in it, there is a hushed silence, and then Suki and Ty Lee applaud.

           

“You look great, Sugar Queen,” says Toph, and Katara is about to thank her, before rolling her eyes. “You know, these blind jokes are getting real old, Toph.”

           

“You know what’s getting real old? Dress shopping, when you all _know_ I can’t see. Can we _please_ go get some lunch now?”

           

They do, and the afternoon they spend that day -

           

(“I think,” Ty Lee says, “this is the most fun I’ve had since I’ve gotten out of prison.”

           

“Isn’t it sad?” says Toph. “That that’s a sentence we can all say, unironically?”) 

           

\- is the most fun Katara’s had in days; ice-cream and laughter and the air around her warm and golden, the colour of friendship, the colour of contentment.

 

* * *

 

It’s the memory of that afternoon Katara brings with her when she goes to the House of Healing that night, after she’s stopped by the pond to leave Zuko a message around the turtleduck’s neck (which has, by now, begun to demand payment for its services – Katara has to lure it with bread before it will deign to swim to the bank.)

           

After she knocks at the door of Zia’s room, after she takes Rhiana into her arms and tries, as best as she can, to ease the rattle of her breath –

           

Katara takes the baby out into the courtyard and sits with her, alone, to tell her about her day.

           

“That’s why you need to live, Rhiana,” she says softly. “So you can grow up and have days like today. I want you to go dress-shopping, one day. I want you to have friends, even if, you know, one of them ambushed you once. And the other used to be friends with someone who tried to kill you. And the other is Toph.”

           

The baby blinks at her, tiny mouth parted, and Katara laughs. “Look, I know I’m not exactly selling it to you,” she says. “But you’d be surprised the friends you find, the friends you make.”

           

The night is quiet, just a few shadowy shapes of the healers working the night shifts passing through the corridors. Light stretches across the courtyard, a silver net cast down from the moon above, and Katara thinks of Yue. She thinks of her father and grandmother, a thousand miles away. She thinks of Mai in the Earth Kingdom, elegant and cat-eyed, looking out into the night.

           

“You know, you’re not so special,” she says, gently poking Rhiana’s chest with her finger; even that brief touch is enough to make her body jolt, the sheer strangeness of feeling the double hearts beneath the baby’s skin. “I know a lot of people are saying that you are, but don’t go getting a big head now. I think everyone has more than one heart. Maybe even more than two. It’s only that you were born with yours inside you. Mine just happen to be outside my chest.”

           

Rhiana’s tiny hand closes around her finger. She is wheezing, but the severity of her gasps seem to have subsided. “That’s why you need to live, Rhiana,” Katara whispers; with the night and the quiet and the warmth of a living being in her arms – still alive, still alive – the words seem like a prayer, a blessing, a spell. “ _Live_.”

 

* * *

 

Katara oversleeps the day of Zuko’s birthday, bolting awake just before noon with the sun streaming in over her face. She’d worked the night shift again at the House of Healing the night before, stumbling back to the palace in the early hours of the dawn.

     

She stretches out in bed for a while, but Katara has never had much patience for lying around; growing up in the South Pole, there are always things to do – trap lines to lay, nets to weave, hides to tan. She blinks for a moment, feeling a wave of homesickness so strong and piercing it takes her breath away, before swinging her legs out of bed briskly and getting dressed.

           

When she leaves her room, she almost runs into Zuko, who is standing alone in the corridor, looking out at the balcony. “Zuko?”

           

He looks around, running his hand through his hair. “Hey, Katara.”

           

“What are you doing out here?”

           

“I’m waiting for Uncle.” Zuko grimaces. “I’ve just finished my meetings for the day, so we’re heading into town to pick up the robes he’s ordered specially for tonight.”

           

“Spirits, I completely forgot– it’s your birthday! I should have led with that, huh?”

 

She steps closer, and he turns to face her. It’s a little strange to see him during the day, with sunlight highlighting his sharp face, instead of the moonlight and shadows that serve to soften it. She sees him at breakfast, of course, but it’s different. She can’t remember the last time they’ve been alone together without the cover of darkness, here in the morning where everyone can see them. His eyes, when he blinks at her, are just slightly darker than the sun. “Happy birthday, Zuko.”

           

He smiles, just a little; it’s not much more than a softening around the lines of his mouth, but Katara sees it. “Thanks, Katara.”

           

“So, hey, I should probably give you your birthday present now, huh?” Katara says. “I’d do it tonight, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing that much of each other at the ball; I’m pretty sure Iroh’s invited half the Fire Nation – and the other half will probably be their plus ones.”

           

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

           

“Don’t be stupid. Come on.” She reaches out to take his hand, but loses her nerve halfway – _I think you and Zuko make a much better couple_ , she can hear Ty Lee say, and _damn it, Ty Lee_ – and so she ends up just brushing his wrist with her fingers. He looks at her, but she’s already turning away and heading back to her room.

           

He leans against the doorway as she rummages in her bedside table. She straightens up, and walks over to him, holding it out. “I didn’t have time to wrap it, but I hope you like it!”

           

Zuko takes it from her palm, his long fingers just grazing her skin, an echo from when she’d touched his wrist earlier. It’s a badge, made of lightly hammered gold and flowing script etched into it – Katara had had it commissioned specially, from a jeweller Toph had recommended in Gaoling.

 

“Made in the Earth Kingdom,” he reads out.

           

“What?” She was going to kill that jeweller. “No, turn it over!”

           

He does. “The Not-As-Much-Of-A-Jerk-As-You-Could-Have-Been award.” Amusement crinkles the edges of his eyes. “Thanks?”

           

“It’s an old joke,” she says. “When you first came to join us, back at the Western Air Temple –“

           

“I know,” he says. “Sokka told me about it once.” He turns the badge over in his fingers. “You know, when I said you didn’t have to get me anything, I meant it. I really, really did. _Really_.”

           

She laughs, as much from surprise as delight. It always startles her when he can make her laugh; Sokka has officially banned Zuko from making jokes – 

           

(“Look, it’s for the greater good, Zuko. ‘Leaf me alone, I’m bushed?’ If you make any more jokes like that, I’m worried we’re looking at the next world war.”)

           

\- but Katara knows that Zuko can be funny in his own way too, all dry humour and smoky voice and raised eyebrow.

           

“You can park your snark at the gate, Fire Lord,” she says. “That thing was expensive.”

           

“I said thanks already.”

           

“Look,” Katara says, rubbing the back of her neck – a Zuko gesture, she realizes even as she’s doing it, one that’s rubbed off on her – “I know maybe this seems like I’m making fun of you, and you know, maybe I was a little bit –“

           

“Feeling better all the time, Katara.”

           

“ _But_ ,” she continues doggedly, “It’s also a symbol, I guess, of how far you’ve come. You’re not as big a jerk as you could have been, Zuko. It’s a compliment. And also, you know, maybe something to aspire to. Whenever you’re in your fancy cabinet meetings, making your important, deciding-the-fate-of-the-world decisions –“

           

“No pressure or anything –“

           

“Just…” she says softly, and the humour in Zuko’s eyes fades. “Remember, okay? Not to be as much of a jerk as you could be.”

           

“Always,” he says, and Katara realizes, suddenly, that they’re much closer than she’d thought, standing in the doorway, his head bent. His breath brushes the shell of her ear. She is very, very aware of the fact that their mouths are just inches apart, and as if reading her mind, Zuko’s eyes flit down to her lips. She can feel her heart hammering against her ribs.

           

“Zuko?” Iroh’s voice rings out, and immediately they spring apart. Katara straightens her clothes, even though there’s no reason they would be creased, and Zuko clears his throat. “I should go,” he says, and Katara nods.

           

“Thanks for the present, Katara,” Zuko says, his voice softer. “Really.”

           

“You’re welcome,” Katara says, reaching out to tap the badge. “And I mean every word of it, you know.”

           

He smiles at her, a proper smile, one that – if Katara is honest with herself – only she ever gets, and even then, rarely. “I’m still not wearing it,” he calls, as he steps out into the corridor, and Katara laughs, her smile feeling too big for her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly this chapter is a bit fluffier than the early two, but what the hell. Let Katara Have Fun 2k16. There'll be more and worse in the chapters to come.
> 
> I unabashedly and unreservedly adore girls being friends, and I am not at all sorry for writing this shopping trip. I really do wish we could have seen more of the friendship between them in the show. 
> 
> I am also a firm believer that there is More to Ty Lee™ than is commonly portrayed, and I hope my depiction of her doesn't stray too far from the mark. Nobleman's daughter, acrobat, warrior - it just seems a shame if all we saw from her was her chirpy, airheaded side.
> 
> [This](http://squidwithelbows.tumblr.com/post/140538153065/falllstar-drunk-doodle-request-4-zuko-in-a) was originally going to be Katara's present to Zuko but I couldn't find a way to write it in. Maybe next time.


	4. Until We Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very, very heavily influenced by Catherynne Valente - in fact, the tale of the girl and the tiger-shark is brazenly lifted from her novel, "The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making."
> 
> As ever, if you're reading this, thank you.

The night of Zuko’s birthday, Iroh has outdone himself.

           

Sokka lets out a low whistle as they step into the hall. “Wow. If the Jasmine Dragon doesn’t work out, Iroh could make a killing being a party planner.”

           

 _W_ _ow_ is an understatement. The entire hall is sparkling; the centrepiece a massive, elegant chandelier glittering above their heads, but there are also graceful, arching sconces on the wall holding slender candles. Flowers – dahlias and roses and frangipani and apple blossoms, all strange and beautiful to Water Tribe eyes – creep delicately up the walls, winding their way outside on the ledges of the balconies. There are tables and chairs, so artfully arranged that they look neither densely clustered or sparse, interspersed with opulent sofas and chaises, piled high with cushions. The floor is carpeted in a rich, plush red.    

           

On the far end of the hall, there is a small raised dais with a throne sitting on it, with a huge Fire Nation flag displayed on the wall behind. A group of musicians are there, plucking at their instruments, filling the air with light music. Already there are Fire Nation nobles milling about, reclining on chaises, sipping from drinks. The air is full of the hum of glasses clinking and voices murmuring, the occasional laugh, but silence falls as they turn their attention to the war heroes standing in the doorway.

           

Katara feels her heart quail in her chest, but just as quickly, defiance rises up in its place. She has nothing to fear from these people. Is she not standing here with the Avatar? Is she not a master waterbender in her own right? She lifts her chin and looks the crowd dead on, meeting the eyes of all the faces in front one by one.

           

She sees suspicion in some of those eyes, dislike only thinly veiled, but most of them only look curious. Then they bow their heads in respect, and Ty Lee brushes past Katara, smiling. “Play nice,” she says, squeezing her arm before entering the crowd. The heads of three teenage boys follow her; Ty Lee’s dress looks even more suggestive here, in the charged atmosphere the night brings, than it did in the sunlit boutique.

           

Sokka makes a beeline for the food, arm looped lightly around Suki’s waist, and Iroh comes bustling over – “I’m so glad you’re here! Zuko should be on his way!” – before whisking Toph away. Katara is about to step forward, maybe get a drink from one of the many servers she sees hovering near the walls, when she feels Aang place a hand on her hip, gently pulling her back.

           

“Katara,” he says earnestly, gray eyes wide. “I just wanted to say… You look amazing tonight. I mean, that dress… Wow.”

           

“Thanks, Aang,” she replies. “You look great, too.” And he does; he and Sokka are clad in new velvet doublets that Iroh has bought them, Aang’s purple, Sokka’s a dark blue, the material soft and rich, buttons and collars shimmering gold.

           

She looks at him, and is startled to realize that he is just as tall as she is now; she doesn’t need to incline her head to look him in the eye. He isn’t as lanky anymore, either; he’s still skinny, but she can see the beginnings of the lean, rangy build Sokka and Zuko are already in possession of, muscles honed by physical exertion and battle training. When did that happen?

           

“Thanks,” he says shyly. “But, you know, I didn’t mean that you only look good because of the dress. Even though you do. But you look great all the time. Even when we were travelling, you know, and we didn’t get to shower that often –“

           

“Enough, Aang!” she says, laughing, half-shuddering, and his eyes light up as he joins in. She’s always been fond of Aang’s laugh; it reminds her of soap bubbles, bright and clear and joyful. “Listen, what happens on our travels, stays on our travels.”

           

“Besides,” she can’t help adding, “You probably think that way because I didn’t have anyone to measure up to then. Who were you going to compare me to, Sokka? _Appa_?”

           

She means it as a joke, but Aang’s face is painfully sincere, his laugh fading. “No, Katara, I mean it,” he says. “You’re beautiful. You always have been.” He falters a little, shuffling his feet. “I just thought you should know –“

           

“Avatar Aang!” someone calls out, and they turn. Katara thinks she sees disappointment flit briefly across Aang’s face before his usual sunny smile returns. A man is making his way across the room to them; Katara recognises him as a historian who’s been meeting with Aang regularly this past month, eager to compile as much as he can learn of the Air Nomad history long thought to be lost forever.

           

She touches his shoulder, lightly. “I’m going to make the rounds, okay?”

           

“Sure,” Aang says, but there’s a flicker of frustration on his features. Maybe it should irritate her – what happened between them the night of the Ember Island Players is still fresh on her mind, no matter that neither of them have brought it up since then – and it does, a little, but it’s also mixed with a strange sense of fondness.

           

Maybe Aang’s grown taller, but everything he feels is still written plain on his face. He hasn’t learned yet to hide what he’s feeling, the way Sokka has started to, her goofy older brother who has begun, so slowly she could almost miss it, to wear a man’s face; the way Zuko, his emotions once so dangerously transparent, has learned to pull on an impassive mask when he listens to his advisers. Aang is still Aang – frank and unguarded and sincere, and that makes her feel a little better. She inclines her head to the historian, who sketches a deep bow – always a bit of a showboat, that one – before setting off alone into the crowd.

           

It turns out that Ty Lee is right. The night does feel a little like a battle, her dress a suit of armour. Nobody is hostile to her; in fact, the majority of the people Katara talks to are respectful to the extreme, genuinely interested in listening what she has to say. They thank her for her service in helping to end the war, ask her what her plans are for the future.

           

But despite their gentle questions, and their delight when she demonstrates a little of her waterbending – _waterbending is not a party trick_ , she can hear Master Pakku sniff disdainfully in her head as she makes curls of water twist throughout the air to ooohs and applause, but she ignores him – their eyes on her are always sharp, a little reticent.

           

When she discovers that one of the delicacies being served that night is lionfish spines, she can’t help but exclaim in surprise. “Aren’t these poisonous?”

             

The woman next to her, a lady from some distinguished House here in the Fire Nation – Katara has already forgotten her name – smiles at her, reaching over to pluck a tangle of the spines delicately from a silver platter. “Oh, no, Master Katara,” she says, popping it in her mouth; Katara watches, mildly horrified, as she chews and swallows. “Lionfish spines are only poisonous when they’re attached, you see. They have to want to poison you. It’s the wanting that _makes_ the poison. Intent,” she says, “is everything.”

           

It’s a strange thing to say, but Katara follows her lead, taking a bite of the lionfish spines. They’re not bad at all, cool and salty and a little stringy, but what tastes sweet is the fact that although none of the Fire Nation nobles remark on it, she gets the feeling she’s passed some kind of test. She thinks she can detect a quiet kind of respect from the people around her after that, even as they move smoothly on to the next topic.

           

So it’s a strange night, but Katara finds that she is, to her surprise, enjoying herself. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Ty Lee leaning against a wall, deep in conversation with the teenage boys earlier; Toph reclining on a chaise with Sokka and Suki standing nearby, surrounded by a group of people; Aang getting a drink.

           

Then the hall falls silent, and she looks up to see Zuko standing in the doorway, Iroh beaming by his side.

           

All the Fire Nation nobles bow their heads, and Zuko inclines his in turn. He looks around the hall, every inch the cool, aloof Fire Lord, and then his eyes find hers, and he blinks. Even from this distance, Katara can see his pale cheeks stain with pink. She is suddenly very, very aware of the way the bodice of her dress clings to her every curve, the way the midnight blue flatters the brown of her skin. She has a sudden, irrational urge to hug Ty Lee, who, although she doesn’t know it, is at that moment grinning from the corner from the ballroom.

           

Then Iroh says something and Zuko snaps back to attention. He weaves his way across the room, steps onto the dais, holds out his arm to help Iroh step on. “Friends,” he says, and it’s so quiet that his low, raspy voice carries across the room easily, “Thank you all so much for coming.”

           

He speaks some more, but Katara isn’t listening. She doesn’t know why she’d thought he’d wear red tonight; maybe because she hasn’t seen him in anything else for weeks. But tonight he is dressed in black; the only other colour the edge of his collar and cuffs, which are outlined in shimmering golden thread. The effect is striking; the ink black highlights his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, his patrician nose. In the glittering light, his dark hair and black doublet and pale skin makes him look like a charcoal sketch, finely, sharply drawn, pointed and delicate. Even his scar looks less like a wound than an ornament, the violet mark arresting as it blooms across his face.

           

Katara tunes back in as Zuko says, “But please. The real hero here is my uncle!” There’s a chorus of cheers; the old man is well loved by the people of the Fire Nation, and there ensues a brief, comical scene where Zuko gestures for Iroh to sit on the throne. Iroh demurs at first, but soon he seats himself where he gives a royal wave, raising his hand and turning it from side to side, sparking a roar of laughter. Zuko smiles, briefly, and leaves the dais, where he disappears into the crowd. The music starts up again, and soon the guests resume talking, although more than a few disappear to speak to the Fire Lord in person.

           

Katara excuses herself and drifts across the room to find her brother, who offers her a pudding. “Man,” he says, mouth full. “These are great. We should have balls every day. And every night.”

           

“There wouldn’t be enough money,” says Katara absent-mindedly, scanning the crowd.

           

“Oh, please. Have you seen the people around here? I was talking to this woman earlier, who was wearing, like, twenty rings. On one hand! Trust me, they’re good for it.”

           

“Maybe,” says Suki fondly. “But then you’d have to wear your fancy doublet every day, and you’ve been complaining about it all night.”

           

“Velvet is _itchy_ ,” Sokka complains. “I just want to take it off.”

           

“My dress is velvet, too,” replies Suki. “You don’t see me complaining.”

           

Sokka grins, and Katara is reminded of the gray Water Tribe helmet he’d worn back in the war; this grin is just as wolfish, just as daring. “Maybe we should take that off too.”

           

“ _Bye_ ,” Katara says, swiping the pudding from Sokka’s hand and leaving, hearing their laughter ring out behind her. Then she notices the change in the movement of the crowd in front of her, the way they begin to break off into pairs, drift to the front of the room. The music shifts into something more graceful, elegant, something that makes Katara’s foot want to tap.

           

Then the crowd parts, and she sees what she hasn’t before: a dance floor, where already some people are starting to waltz. Their movements are strange to Katara, fluid and smooth, very different from the Water Tribe dances they hold around the fire during mid-winter, or the summer solstice.

           

Then she hears Toph’s voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd, “Nope, sorry, Fire Lord Sparky. No can do.”

           

She turns, and sees Zuko with Toph, frustration furrowed onto his brow. Ty Lee walks beside them, looking delighted. “Come on, Toph,” Zuko says. “It’s my birthday! Doesn’t that count for anything?”

           

“I’ll build you a statuary. In fact, I already have five statues of you – if you want to come and pose for more sometime, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

           

“Please,” Zuko grates out, and Katara knows at once this is serious.

           

“What’s up?” she says, crossing over to them. Zuko looks at her for a moment and then away. “It’s nothing,” he says.

           

“Sparky here was just asking me to dance with him,” says Toph. “ _Dance_! I think somebody’s been hitting the mei wine a little early.”

           

“What?” asks Katara.

           

Ty Lee jumps in. “The thing is, Katara, this ball is like hunting season for the ladies of the court. By now pretty much everyone knows that Zuko and Mai aren’t together anymore –“ Out of the corner of her eye, Katara sees Zuko’s face twitch, for a moment – “So that basically means that we have a young, eligible Fire Lord up for grabs. All the nobles are going to want to get their daughters acquainted with Zuko!”

           

She grins; Katara didn’t know anybody could look that delighted. “That’s how court works. It’s a hunt, and a chase, and a pursuit. They’re going to wile Zuko with perfumes and dresses and compliments, and then they’re going to harpoon him through the crown.”

           

Zuko groans. “I wish there was a _real_ harpoon around here right about now.”

           

Katara doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. “And you think dancing with Toph is going to stop you from getting… harpooned?”

           

“No,” Zuko says. “But it’s one less dance I have to dance with them.” He jerks his head across the room, where Katara can see a throng of girls eyeing him curiously.

             

“Can’t you just… say no?” Katara points out. “You’re Fire Lord; they can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

           

“I could,” says Zuko. “But there’s a lot of people in here I don’t want to offend. I’ll have to dance with a few of them, at least.”

           

“I’m not doing it,” Toph says, and the way she says it, her feet planted firmly apart, makes it clear she’s not changing her mind.

           

Zuko turns to Ty Lee, who grins at him. “I’d love to, Zuko, but I can’t! I already have three other guys waiting for me over there!” Then she looks at Katara, eyes sparkling, and Katara already knows what she’s going to say. “Ask Katara! I’m sure she won’t mind!”

           

Zuko starts, eyes darting to Katara’s before darting away. “Look, it’s okay –“

           

“She doesn’t mind!” says Ty Lee again. “It’s Katara, or that girl who’s heading here now. You know, the one who’s looking at you like you’re one of the main courses.”

           

Zuko’s eyes widen, and Katara, despite the nerves fluttering in her belly, despite the fact that she’s tried, subtly, to stomp on Ty Lee’s foot – the other girls steps nimbly out of the way, acrobat grace – laughs; it’s just so funny, to see the Fire Lord look so afraid of a tiny girl in a yellow dress, who is indeed making her way over, chin set in determination.

           

“It’s okay, Zuko,” she says, stepping up to him, offering him her arm, and he purses his lips, studying her face.

 

“You don’t have to,” he says.

           

“That’s what we do, isn’t it?” she says softly, teasing. “We save each other.”

           

His mouth tilts up, a little, and he takes her arm. Ty Lee has melted into the crowd, her smile splitting her face; out of the corner of her eye Katara sees the girl in the yellow dress pause, her face creased in confusion as the Fire Lord leads Katara out onto the dance floor.

           

“Oh, wait, I should have said,” she hisses, the nerves starting their slow march up from her stomach, crowding her arms and legs and throat. She can see Suki among the crowd, looking at her with surprise, Sokka raising his head. “I don’t know how to dance.”

           

“I do,” he replies, guiding her hand up to his shoulder, gently gripping the other with one of his. He places his other hand on her waist, lightly, the exact spot where Aang had touched her earlier. She thinks of Aang for a heartbeat, and feels guilty for a moment. But then she shakes her head. Why should she feel guilty? She and Aang were just friends.

           

(And so were she and Zuko, she reminds herself. This dance didn’t mean anything. It’s what they do. They save each other.)

           

“You do?”

           

“I was crown prince for seventeen years, Katara. Give me a little credit.”

           

They wait a beat, and then as the music launches into a new song, Zuko begins to move. She watches where he steps, his hands firm on her as he steers them swiftly, lightly around the floor, her skirt swishing. It’s a little like waterbending, she realizes, a little like sparring; the spins, the breathing, the footwork sure and delicate. Once she realizes that, she starts to relax a little; she’s battled Zuko before, time and time again, and this is somehow both different and the same, moving with him and for him and against him, her sparring partner and her dance partner, her echo and her mirror.

           

He twirls her for a moment, and then pulls her back in, too fast so they almost collide; it takes a fancy bit of tripping before they are back in sync. “By the way,” he says quietly. “You look… well, you look… really nice, Katara.”

           

It’s not much of a compliment, but Katara can feel her cheeks burn. “Thanks. Ty Lee helped pick out the dress.”

           

“It suits you,” Zuko says, and this close, she can feel his words run down her neck, tremble in her eyelashes. He lets go of her hand for a moment, to touch her hair, which is half-up, netted with silver and pearls. “Did she do your hair too?”

           

“Yeah.”

           

“It looks... nice.” He winces, a little. “More than nice.”

           

“Thanks,” she says, looking up at him. Has she ever been this close to him? She’d hugged him once, after the incident with Yon Rha, but that had lasted a moment, a heartbeat. She hasn’t been close enough to him long enough to study how his pulse beats under his jaw, how his smell – warm, and _orange_ , somehow – is strongest in the hollow of his neck. His hands are rough and callused, the fingers long and slender; a warrior’s hands, a swordsman’s hands.

           

She’s never noticed how much bigger he is than her – not in terms of height; Katara can fit her head just under his chin. But for all that he is lean and wiry, he seems so much more _solid_ than she does, his compact body a stark contrast to her slender frame and bird wrists. His eyes are the colour of amber. They are the colour of bronze. They are the colour of the sun.

           

 _Zuko_ , she thinks. _I -_

           

Then the song ends, and they stop, surprised. Zuko hesitates, then lets go of her hand, removes his hand from her waist, straightens his spine.

           

 _Ask me to dance again_ , she wants to say. _Ask me again_.

           

“Thanks, Katara,” he says, and she swallows her disappointment.

           

“No problem, Zuko. If you’re still looking to avoid those girls, I’m sure Suki’ll be up for one dance with you.”

           

“Yeah,” he says slowly, and Katara is very aware that they are still standing on the dance floor, unmoving, facing each other. She can feel curious eyes on her back.

           

She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to feel her heart skip when Zuko says her name, to notice how the planes of his face shift even when he is just thinking about smiling. So she does the only thing she knows how; slips back into their comfort zone, their easy friendship. 

           

“And if that doesn’t work,” she jokes, “I’m sure Aang would be more than happy to step in. He was your first dance partner, anyway. Remember the Dancing Dragon?”

           

Something unreadable crosses Zuko’s face – relief? Disappointment? Then he frowns, good-humouredly.

           

“It _wasn’t_ a dance,” he says, mock-irritably. “It’s an ancient Firebending form that happens to be thousands of years old.”

           

Katara laughs, taking a few steps back, and smiles at him before turning back into the crowd. She accepts a drink from a server and stands to the side, sipping it. Ty Lee materializes by her side, but Katara raises her hand before she can say anything. “Not one word,” she says, and Ty Lee laughs, so bright and long that Katara can’t help but join in.

           

They talk to some other people; Ty Lee is almost aggressively social, and people are drawn to her like moths to a flame. They try out the delicacies on display, the food foreign and delicious in Katara’s mouth. They watch the ornamental firebender Iroh has hired for the occasion leap gracefully onto the dais, bow, raise his arms.  

           

Katara has seen firebending before, of course, but only ever in the context of battle; controlled blasts of flame; swift, graceful arcs aiming down at her; roaring conflagrations –

           

 _(lightning_ )

           

\- but this is different; this is beautiful. She watches, entranced, as the man makes dragons stretch their necks and swoop up towards the ceiling; watches as he makes flowers bloom. He sketches out the characters of Zuko’s name, blazing letters six feet tall in midair, and there is a rumble of approval from the crowd.

           

Suddenly, Katara feels a gentle tap on her shoulder, and when she turns, a young boy is standing there, a scroll in his hand. “Master Katara?” he asks. “I have a message for you.”

           

Katara reaches out to take it, and the boy hesitates. “I’ve been instructed,” he says, “to tell you that maybe you’ll want to read it alone.”

           

“Who sent you?” Katara asks, but even before the boy replies, she knows the answer.

           

“Katara?” Ty Lee says. “What’s wrong?”

           

“Nothing. I’ll be right back, okay?”

           

She makes her way across the crowd to a small balcony by the side of the hall, one of many. This one is empty; most everyone else is watching the show, or they are clustered on one of the larger balconies. This one is little more than a tiny terrace, just big enough for two or three people, with an abundance of ferociously red flowers spilling out over the ledge. The air is warm, and she notices with a start how dark the sky has become. It must almost be midnight.

           

She unfurls the scroll, and before she reads the words, she recognises the handwriting; she’s seen this small, slanted script almost every day now, on prescriptions, on medicine bottles, on clipboards by the side of patients’ beds.

              

 _I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this tonight_ , Jyn has written. _I didn’t want to ruin your night. But you deserve to know._

           

Rhiana has died, of course. She died two hours ago, gasping, her breaths growing more ragged until her lungs, worn out and tired, finally gave out, her double hearts slowing to a stop. It’s nothing Jyn hasn’t told her would happen. It’s nothing Katara hasn’t told herself, in the smallest, deepest part of her heart, to expect. But that knowledge does nothing to soften the terrible, terrible grief that opens up in her stomach, claws its way up her throat.

           

 _Don’t blame yourself_ , Jyn writes. _I know you will, of course, just as you know that I will tell you not to. There was nothing you could have done_. 

           

This is how the world moves. The absence of war does not mean the absence of death. The presence of joy does not mean the absence of grief.

           

Katara closes her eyes for a moment, one long blink. _Live_ , she thinks. _You were supposed to live._

           

She rests her elbows on the ledge, crushing several of the flowers, and looks out into the night. Zia is out there somewhere. What is she doing? How is she feeling?

           

Applause rings out from the hall; Katara hears it, dimly, and realizes that the firebender has taken his last bow. The ball is finally over. Iroh says a few last words – she can just make out the rumble of his voice through the roaring in her ears – and when she turns her head, she can see the guests start to leave.

           

He finds her, of course. He always does.

           

“Katara?” he says, and she looks around to see him standing in the doorway. “Hey, there you are. I thought you’d gone back to the palace – Aang and everyone else already have.”

           

“Hey,” she says, her voice strange in her ears.

           

“Hey,” he says again. “Are you okay? Ty Lee said you seemed a little weird towards the end there. Are you feeling alright?”

           

Iroh pops his head around the doorway. “Nephew, don’t forget to – Oh!” Surprise flits across his face, and then it creases into a smile, so wide his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way his nephew’s does. Katara doesn’t know how anyone could not love Iroh, and for an absurd moment, she wants him to hug her, wants to feel the easy comfort the old man radiates. “Master Katara! Is everything okay?”

           

“I’m just not feeling so good,” she says, and Iroh frowns.

             

“Is it the food? I’ll have to give the caterers a good talking-to. And they came so highly recommended! I thought the crab cakes looked a little suspicious –“

           

“No,” she says, and tries to smile. Iroh looks tired and elated at the same time, flushed with the success of the ball he’s spent so long planning. She can’t spoil this for him. _I didn’t want to ruin your night_. “No, I’m sure it’s not the food, Iroh. Just a bit of a stomachache.”

           

Zuko looks at her sharply, but says nothing. Iroh sighs in relief. “Well, if that’s all it is, I just have the thing! Come, Master Katara, I think I have a box of peppermint tea back in my room. It works wonders!”           

           

“That sounds lovely,” Katara says. “But I think I’ll just stay out here for a little while longer, if that’s okay? The fresh air, you know.”

           

“I’ll walk Katara back to the palace later, Uncle,” says Zuko. “If she’s still not feeling well, we’ll stop by your room for the tea.”

           

“Alright,” says Iroh. “But don’t take too long. I’m planning to put my face mask on before I sleep, and it’s not going to be a pretty sight!” He waggles his eyebrows, and despite herself, Katara manages a small laugh.

           

Zuko looks mortified. “ _Bye_ , Uncle,” he says.

           

“It was a wonderful ball, Iroh,” Katara adds.

           

He beams. “Thank you, Master Katara. Feel better.” He leaves, and Zuko turns back to her. He doesn’t say anything, but waits for her to speak.

           

“So, fun night, huh?” she says, and he looks at her for a moment.

           

“Not bad,” he says, voice dry in the warm night. “Better than I expected. Some parts were… pretty good.”

           

Something in the way he’s watching her makes her wonder for a moment, if he’s talking about their dance. Right then, it’s hard to believe that that was just tonight, that barely an hour ago, she was moving in his arms. She can’t think about that now; Rhiana’s death has blocked everything else out.

           

“Is everything –“ he begins, but she cuts him off. “Have I ever told you the story of the girl and the tiger-shark?”

           

Zuko studies her. “Katara, are you –“

           

“It’s a good story,” she says. “I mean, I don’t even know if it’s technically a story. There isn’t really an ending. Or a moral. And it’s pretty sad. Sokka used to hate it; I think Gran-Gran only ever told us that story twice.”

             

“Okay,” he says slowly, still watching her carefully, warily, as if she is made of glass and a sudden movement will shatter her. “Tell me.”

           

She clears her throat. “Okay, so, what happens is that there’s this girl. She’s never had to hunt, or fish, because she’s lived on fruits and berries her whole life. But one day winter comes and hard as she tries, she can’t find anything to eat. She really, really doesn’t want to hunt – she doesn’t want to take another creature’s life – but three days pass and she can’t stand it anymore. She takes a net down to the water and waits.”

           

(This is the part where any other night, sitting next to the turtleduck pond, Zuko would say, “A girl? Why do these people never have names? It’s always ‘a girl,’ ‘the emperor’, ‘the Melon Lord’ – stop laughing, I’m serious –“)

             

But this is not any other night, and so Zuko is quiet.

           

“It’s easier than she thinks, catching a fish. When the net snags, she hauls it up and she eats it then and there, on the ice, next to the sea.”

           

(“How did she cook it?” Zuko would say, any other night, and she might reply:

           

“Dunno. The story doesn’t say. Look, that part’s not important –“

           

“I’m just asking –“

           

“Alright, what’s your favourite way to eat fish?”

           

“Grilled.”

           

“Okay, let’s say she eats her fish grilled. Maybe she even throws in some of those fire flakes you like so much. Happy?” she might say, and try to ignore the way he turns his face away to hide his smile.)

           

“She cries the whole time; this is the first time she’s ever killed something, and the guilt eats at her. But the hunger is stronger than the guilt, so she eats the whole thing, until it’s just bones. When she’s done, she sees a shadow moving under the water, coming right up to the edge of the ice. It rolls up a little, and she sees it’s a tiger-shark, showing its striped belly, looking up out of the water to stare at her. ‘Please,’ she says, ‘Don’t eat me. I’m sorry I ate the fish.’”

           

“’Why are you sorry?’ the shark replies. ‘I eat fish. That’s what fish are for.’”

           

“’I daresay you think that’s what girls are for too,’ she says, and the shark blinks at her. ‘Some of them.’”

           

“The shark keeps swimming back and forth, rolling up towards the breaking surf to look at her, and she says to it, ‘Please stop. You’re making me dizzy with all your swimming.’”

           

“’I can’t stop,’ the shark rasps. ‘If I stop, I shall sink and die. That’s the way I’m made. I have to keep going always, and even when I get where I’m going, I’ll have to keep on. That’s living.’”  

           

“’But I’m not a shark,’ she whispers, and the shark shrugs elegantly, its great body shivering into the waves. ‘Aren’t you?’”

           

“The girl thinks about that for a while as the shark glides back and forth in front of her. ‘Maybe I am,’ she says softly. ‘I have to keep going too, don’t I?’”

           

“’Yes.’”

           

“’I have to keep going, so that I can keep going after that, forever and ever.’”

           

“’Not forever.’”

           

“’Why haven’t you eaten me, shark? I ate the fish; I ought to be eaten.’”

           

“’It doesn’t work like that.’”

           

“’But you’re a shark. Eating is what you do.’”

           

“’No. I swim. I roar. I race. I sleep. I dream. I know what the ocean looks like from underneath, all her dark places. And sometimes I follow sorrow when it bleeds into the water; track unhappiness over miles and miles of cold sea. Sometimes it leads me to shipwrecks; sometimes it leads me to messages in bottles; and sometimes, it leads me to girls shivering on the ice, who should know better than to mourn over fish.’”

           

“’The girl stares, and the shark rolls over entirely in the water, huge fin rearing up out of the waves and slicing back down again. ‘We all just keep moving, love. We keep moving until we stop.’ Then the shark plows through a sudden, heavy swell that soaks the girl, and when she blinks the water out of her eyes, it’s gone.’”

           

It’s quiet when Katara is finished. The stars gleam coldly down at her; the red of the flowers glows violently at her in the dark, almost like an accusation. A breeze whispers over them, and despite the warm night, Katara wraps her arms around herself.

           

She looks up at him. “It’s a good story, don’t you think? Because it’s true. We just keep moving, Zuko. We just keep living, until we stop.”

           

“What’s happened?” he asks, cutting to the quick, and reflexively Katara tightens her grip on Jyn’s letter. It’s his birthday – if she couldn’t bear to tell Iroh, she shouldn’t even be considering telling Zuko. _I didn’t want to ruin your night._ This can wait until morning.

_But you deserve to know._

           

She doesn’t want to wait until morning. She realizes that maybe, too, Zuko would want to know; that he is just as invested in Rhiana, his subject, one of the people he’s sworn, as Fire Lord, to protect.

           

Katara considers Aang lying to Toph and Sokka about being able to master the Avatar state – he’d done it to protect them, but it had backfired.

           

There has never been any good in lying to the people you love. And she considers, too, that when it comes to her and Zuko, the one thing they have always had, before friendship, before affection, before respect, is _honesty_. They have seen all of the dark crevices hiding in each other, and neither one of them have turned away.

           

So she hands him the letter and turns away as he reads it. She hears his breath catch in his throat; feels more than hears him moving towards her as she looks out over the ledge of the balcony. Then his hand is on the small of her back, lightly, tentatively, and she turns to face him.

           

“Oh, Katara,” he sighs, his voice a banked fire in the dark, warm and dry, and she isn’t sure who moves first, but then she is pressing her forehead into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around him. He rests his chin on her head. “You can’t save them all,” he whispers, and he holds her until she stops shaking.

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that ATLA takes place in a world that (although fictional) is largely coded to be Asian-influenced, so I really have no excuse for the scene that is technically, a European waltz, other than that I like waltzes a lot. Also, I'm not saying that [this](http://paintedfirelady.tumblr.com/post/143865124024/i-have-been-so-blind-you-must-know) gorgeous artwork influenced the dance scene at all, but it _absolutely_ 100% did.
> 
> EDIT: I have just been informed there is a [part 2](http://paintedfirelady.tumblr.com/post/146631424010/you-have-bewitched-me-body-and-soul), so I just needed to let you guys know that I have not stopped yelling. Keep on doing the Lord's work, paintedfirelady.
> 
> Comments and reviews are always appreciated! And thank you again for reading <3


	5. Loneliness is the Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Also, Aangst! (I'm sorry, I had to.)
> 
> The story of the too-clever fox-crow is lifted from Leigh Bardugo's beautifully haunting tale [The Too-Clever Fox](http://www.tor.com/2013/06/04/the-too-clever-fox/).

Autumn falls on the Fire Nation, and slowly, Katara feels everyone’s mood shift. Outwardly, much remains the same – the temperature here is constant almost year-round, so it’s still warm, which feels strange to Katara and Sokka, used as they are to heavy snows and gales. The only physical change to be seen are the leaves in the trees, which are beginning to die gorgeously around them in shades of red and gold.

           

But Katara notices a restlessness among her friends that hasn’t been there before. She sees the way Suki glances out of the windows, the way Toph drums her fingers as she sits in the grass with Iroh, the way Aang tips his head back to look at the open sky, something hungry and yawning in his gaze. Then, finally, one morning at breakfast, Suki says it.

           

“Ty Lee and I are going back to the Earth Kingdom,” she says, and Katara looks up.

           

“You are?” Aang says.

           

“Yeah. We’ve been away for the Kyoshi Warriors too long, and I think it’s time we went back. If we go now, we’ll be back in time for the Mid-Autumn Festival, which is always a big thing back on Kyoshi Island.” Suki half-smiles at them, looking around the table. Her voice grows soft. “I think we’ve been here long enough.”

           

Katara looks at her brother. “Are you going too?” she asks, even as she thinks, _No, he can’t be, he wouldn’t_. Sokka would tell her if he was leaving. 

           

Sokka glances at Suki for a moment, and even in that one look Katara can feel the bond between them, their connection so strong it transcended words. She feels strangely jealous, suddenly, and a little lonely.

           

“Nah,” her brother says, and Katara has to close her eyes for a second against the swell of relief that pushes up against her ribs. “I’m going to stay here for a bit longer. I’ve gotten used to eating like this – hey, Zuko, when I leave, can I bring your royal chef with me?”

           

Zuko rolls his eyes at Sokka, and Katara is grateful at how her brother has managed to lighten the atmosphere, the way he always does. “When do you leave, Suki?”

           

“Three days. We’ve booked a ship already – it should get us back to the Earth Kingdom in a few weeks.”

           

“In that case,” says Toph, studying her fingers, “Do you think they’ll take another passenger on board?”

           

There is stunned silence for a moment, and then Sokka says, “You’re leaving too, Toph?”

           

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she replies. “I think it’s time I finally went back to see my folks, you know? Then I thought about heading to Ba Sing Se – I hear they’re finally bringing down the inner walls in the city. They’re going to need a master earthbender. The Blind Bandit returns!”

           

“You should start a school for metalbending,” says Aang thoughtfully.

           

“I thought about that too. But I’m not sure about that, Twinkle Toes. As it is, I’m unique, you know? Toph, the first and last Metalbender – it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

           

“It’s not that great,” Aang says, “being the last of anything.”

           

It’s quiet suddenly, and everyone looks at their plates, except for Katara who rests her hand on his, just for a moment.

           

There was a time when Toph would’ve pushed back. There was a time when she would’ve argued. There was a time when Toph would never have even thought about apologizing, but they’ve all grown older. They’ve all changed.

           

Her milky eyes soften. “Sorry, Twinkle Toes. I didn’t think.” There is a pause, and then Toph continues, “Maybe I _will_ open a school then. Master Toph – that has a nice ring to it too.”

           

“If you’re sure,” says Ty Lee, “I’m sure the captain wouldn’t mind taking you on. We can get it sorted out today.”

           

Toph looks uncertain for a moment, hesitant in a way that Katara isn’t used to seeing. Then she raises her chin. “I’m sure. It’s time we hit the road.”

           

“What about you, Aang?” Zuko asks. “Are you leaving too?”

           

Aang looks out of the window for a moment, his eyes distant. Katara knows him well enough to see the longing in his gaze; to notice the restlessness in the set of his mouth. Aang has always been happiest on the move, traveling from place to place. But then he looks away, and glances at Katara, who shifts in her seat. “Not yet, Zuko.”

           

“Okay,” the Fire Lord says, and Katara thinks she sees a flicker of relief pass over his face. Zuko’s been much better at hiding how he feels ever since he took the throne – weeks and weeks of council meetings has trained him to remain impassive – but Katara knows him too, just as well as she knows Aang. It occurs to her, not for the first time, that when they all leave, Zuko will remain here alone. “Then I guess we should drink to this, or something.”

           

“What, like a celebration?” teases Ty Lee. “So eager to see us go, Zuko?”

           

“Of course not. I wish you could all stay longer,” Zuko replies, and the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. “But since you can’t, I guess – well, to new beginnings.”

           

“And to not having Toph put her feet up on the breakfast table anymore while we’re eating,” says Sokka, who receives a thump on the shoulder for that.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, they go to see Suki, Ty Lee and Toph off at the harbour. Toph tries to punch Katara’s shoulder, but Katara isn’t having that – she pulls the other girl into a hug, and is surprised to feel Toph’s arms squeeze her tight, even briefly.

           

“All right, Sugar Queen,” she says. “Don’t get all mushy on me now.”

           

“I’ll miss you, Toph,” Katara says, and Toph looks away for a moment. Katara can see her blink, and swallow, but when she turns to face her again, she seems unruffled as ever. “I know you will,” she says, and Katara laughs.

           

Then Toph touches her shoulder, lightly. “Take care, Katara,” she says, and Katara realizes that Toph hasn’t called her by name for a long, long time.

           

Ty Lee sweeps Katara up into a hug. “All the best with the Kyoshi Warriors,” Katara tells her, and the other girl beams. “Thanks! I’m really nervous about meeting them. Do you think they’ll like me?”

           

“How could they not?” Katara replies, and realizes she means it.

           

When it is Suki’s turn, Katara hugs her tight. “I used to wish for a sister, when I was smaller,” she tells her. “And I think now that I couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

           

Suki smiles, a little shaky. Her eyes drift to Sokka, who is looking at the both of them, his eyes soft – Sokka, her idiot brother, who’d said to Suki earlier, solemn, “Suki, you may have a lot of them, but believe me when I say… I’m your biggest fan,” which had caused Suki to laugh so hard it was almost possible to mistake the tears sliding down her cheeks for laughter, instead of the sadness they all knew it to be.

           

“I’m really going to miss you,” Katara continues, and she is, too – steady, compassionate, kind Suki, who has become one of her best friends, who makes Sokka happier than Katara has ever seen him.

           

“And I’ll miss you,” Suki replies. “We’ll see each other again, Katara. Take care.”

             

They watch as the three of them board the ship, wave until it disappears into the horizon. Then they stand there for a while, silent, until Zuko straightens up. “We’d better be getting back,” he says, and Sokka nods, swallowing.

           

“Katara, wait,” Aang says, reaching out to touch her hand, and Zuko turns his head. He hesitates for a moment, then goes on ahead. Katara watches him go.

           

That’s another thing that’s been changing, with the turn of the seasons, Aang’s noticeably growing affection towards her. He compliments her, blushing; brings her flowers; brushes her hand. Katara isn’t sure what to do about all this, what to say.

           

She isn’t sure, too, how much Zuko has noticed, but he’s always been observant. But then, something’s changed between them, too.

           

It begins the night of his birthday, the night of Rhiana’s death, a kind of distance. They still meet at the turtleduck pond, but not as frequently – Zuko begs off more often than not, citing late night meetings and increased paperwork for his absences. It doesn’t seem to matter that paperwork used to be what they had done together, Katara resting her feet in his lap as she’d read out to him the latest proposals for tax reforms, as he’d closed his eyes, listening.

           

When they do meet, things aren’t awkward, exactly – they still trade late night stories, still spar when the restlessness gets too much – but Katara gets the feeling that Zuko is trying to put some distance between them. He’s more reserved than he used to be; the full-belly laughs that – it used to be – only Katara could ever draw out from him have disappeared; he doesn’t smile at her as much.

           

It makes Katara confused. It makes her angry. It makes her sad. It makes her a little more willing to smile at Aang when he brings her a firelily, or tells her a joke.

           

“Sokka and I were talking,” Aang says now, “He’d like to go to Shu Jing soon, to visit Master Piandao. And I was thinking, maybe we could all go together, on Appa? Just the three of us, like old times.”

           

“That sounds great,” Katara replies, and it does. It’ll be good, she realizes, to get out of the capital for a bit. “When do we leave?”

           

“The day after tomorrow?” Aang says, and beams at her.

 

* * *

 

That night, Katara is heading back to the palace after a shift at the House of Healing. She doesn’t spend as much time there anymore, and when she is there, she is careful not to bond too much with the patients she deals with. Jyn doesn’t say anything about this, but Katara thinks she understands. There’s too much sorrow left over in Katara from attending Rhiana’s funeral, from the look in Zia’s eyes as the woman thanked her, voice hollow, before departing back to her village.

           

 _Y_ _ou can’t save them all_. Katara knows this, now. But knowledge has never made anything easier.

           

To her surprise, she sees Zuko sitting by the turtleduck pond, his profile traced silver by the moonlight. He’d cancelled the last three nights in a row, and she hadn’t expected to see him turn up tonight. She hesitates for a moment – something she would never have done before – before walking over to him.

           

“Hey,” she says, tentatively, and he looks up at her.

           

“Hey.”

           

“I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”

           

“Do you want me to go?” he says, and Katara hates this, hates the way everything has become so tentative between them, the way talking to each other has become like picking their way through a minefield. His eyes are reflective in the moonlight; mirrors glowing back at her, and for a moment she can’t see _Zuko_ in them, just twin gleams of light.

           

“No,” she says, sitting down next to him. “That’s not what I meant. Stay.”

           

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Zuko says, “It’s strange around here, isn’t it? Now that they’re gone?”

           

“So _weird_ ,” she says. “Sokka’s right – I never thought I’d actually miss having Toph put her feet up on the table while we’re eating, but there you go.”

           

He nods a little, and they lapse back into quiet. More to break the silence than anything, Katara says, “But I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would, you know? I mean, do you remember the first time we met here, at this pond, so many weeks ago?”

           

Zuko doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Katara is afraid he’s forgotten. Then he says, his voice distant, “We must be anchored.”

           

“Yes,” she says. “I thought I would feel so lost when everyone left, remember? But I think I’ve found my anchor. Or something close to it, anyway. So I don’t feel so adrift now that things are changing.”

           

“That’s good.”

           

“I think I have you to thank for that.”

           

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly, and for a moment everything in Katara’s centre softens. _Tell me what’s wrong_ , she wants to say. _Tell me why you’ve changed_.

           

He shifts. “Aang told me you guys were going to Shu Jing the day after tomorrow.”

           

“Yeah,” she says, and something flickers in his eyes. “We’d invite you, but you didn’t think you’d be able to get away, you know? Fire Lord duties and all that. Also –“

           

“You want it to be just the three of you. I know.”

           

“Are you okay with that?” she asks, and he looks at her.

           

“Yes. Are _you_?”

           

Katara blinks. “Of course I am,” she says slowly. “We’ll be back in a few days anyway. I’ll bring you back a souvenir, if you want.”

           

Zuko tilts the corner of his mouth at that, but says nothing. They watch the turtleduck heave its way out of the water, waddle over before settling itself in between them. Absently, Katara strokes its little head.

           

“Katara, have I ever told you,” Zuko says suddenly, “the story of the fox-crow and the trap?”

           

Katara shakes her head, leans back on her hands in the cool grass. “Tell me,” she says, but she’s a little uncertain too. There’s something to the way Zuko’s jaw is set, the way he tilts his head, that’s unfamiliar to her.

           

“Once upon a time, there was a forest, and in it lived many animals, all living in harmony. It wasn’t total peace, of course – hunters will hunt, it’s what they do, and prey will run – but for the most part, they were happy. Then one day, winter came, and the animals noticed that many of them had started to disappear. They held a meeting, and sent a sparrow-mouse out to investigate.

           

“When she returned, she said, ‘Death is upon us. Zhao has arrived in the forest.’

           

“The animals fell silent. Zhao was no ordinary hunter. It was said he left no tracks and his rifle made no sound. He travelled from village to village, and whenever he went, he bled the woods dry.

           

“’Did you see the man himself?’ asked the badger-mole, and the sparrow-mouse nodded. ‘And his sister,’ she said, for Zhao was said to travel with his sister, Aiko.

           

“’This is terrible news,’ said one of the rabbit-hawks. ‘What should we do?’

           

“’I will go,’ said the fox-crow, and all the animals breathed a bit easier, for the fox-crow was known to be the cleverest of them all. ‘I will find a way to defeat Zhao.’

           

“So the fox-crow went, under the cover of darkness, to the hut where Zhao and Aiko stayed. He slunk across the ground, belly brushing the grass, and reared up on his hind legs, wings spread for balance, to press his nose against the glass.

           

“Zhao was younger than he’d expected, and handsomer. He wore a fine linen shirt and a fur-lined vest with a gold watch tucked into his pocket. His eyes darted frequently to his sister, who sat reading by the fire. The fox-crow could not make out her face, but Aiko had a beautiful profile and sat with her slippered feet resting on the skin of a large platypus-bear.

           

“The fox-crow’s blood ran cold, for he knew that platypus-bear. They had been friends for a time, and the sight filled him with a steely resolve to defeat Zhao. But how?

           

“For three days, he studied the hunter’s movements, but he learned nothing. Zhao ate heartily for every meal. He went to one of the taverns and did not return until the early hours. He slept till late each morning. He did go out to the forest to set traps, to lay lines, but the fox-crow never saw him catch anything.

           

“And yet, on the fourth day, the fox-crow saw Zhao emerge from the tanning shed with a massive gray pile in his muscled arms. He walked to one of the wooden frames and there he stretched the hide of a great gray wolf-goat.

           

“’Aiko is the answer,’ he told the rest of the animals later. ‘Sorcery is the only way Zhao must have caught so many of us, and his sister must know of it.’

           

“’But why should she tell us her brother’s secrets?’ huffed the badger-mole.

           

“’She fears him. They barely speak, and she is careful to keep her distance. Believe me, there’s trouble there.’

           

“Aiko was only permitted to leave the hut every few days, to trade at the market. She carried a basket or sometimes pulled a sled piled high with furs and blankets. For the first mile, she kept a steady pace and stayed to the path. But when she reached a small clearing, far from the outskirts of town and deep with the quiet of snow, she stopped. She slumped down on a fallen tree trunk, put her head in her hands, and wept.

           

“The fox-crow slipped out from behind the trees and asked Aiko, “Why do you cry?” Aiko gasped, and looked around. Her eyes were red, and her skin was blotchy, but she was still beautiful. “You shouldn’t be here, fox-crow,” she said. “You are not safe.”

           

“’Because of your brother. Is that why you cry? Do you fear him too?’

           

“”Yes,’ Aiko breathed. ‘Yes.’

             

“’Then help us,’ the fox-crow said. ‘Help us defeat him.’”

           

“Aiko shuddered, and the fox-crow knew he’d pushed too far, so instead he decided to set about winning her trust. He spread his wings and fluttered them, leaping from snowdrift to snowdrift, and eventually she started to laugh. Then she looked at the darkening sky and gasped. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Thank you for making me laugh, fox-crow. I hope not to see you here again.’

           

“But the fox-crow was there the next time she made her way to the market, the next time she sat on the tree log and cried. He curled up in the snow and told her stories, tales that the animals traded between themselves until her tears dried up and she began to smile. He brought her pinecones and snowdrops, little gifts to cheer her. He jumped from tree branch to tree branch, glided across the snow, wings outstretched as she clapped.

           

“After several meetings like this, he said to her again, ‘Aiko’ – for by now she had entrusted him with her name – ‘I know you fear your brother, and I do not blame you. I am sure his wrath is mighty. But you must tell me how to defeat him.’

           

“Her eyes began to fill with tears, and the fox-crow darted forward to nudge her hand with his nose. ‘Come now,’ he said, ‘Let there be no more crying. I have escaped many a trap in my life, my lady. Surely I can help you escape this one.’

           

“’There are many kinds of traps, fox-crow,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t escape them all.’

           

“’I can,’ he replied, and she closed her eyes before saying, ‘Sorcery. Sorcery is the key to Zhao’s hunting victories.’

           

“’Tell me how to stop him,’ he said, and she told him, ‘I will. Meet me here at the same time tomorrow.’

           

“So it was that the fox-crow returned to the clearing the next day to find Aiko already sitting there. ‘My friend,’ she greeted him. ‘Come. I will tell you all, but first, won’t you have something to eat?’

           

“Now the fox-crow was a clever creature, and wily, and normally he would never have taken food from a human’s hand. But he knew Aiko – they had spent many, many hours here together – and the winter had been hard. His stomach was flat, and growling. So he padded across the snow and ate from her palm gladly, as she fed him bits of meat and bread. Eventually, his eyes began to droop, and he fell asleep with his head in the girl’s lap.

           

“He woke to Aiko’s knife at his belly, to the nudge of the blade as it began to wiggle beneath his skin. When he tried to scramble away, he found his paws were bound.

           

“’Why?’ he gasped as Aiko worked the knife in deeper, and she shrugged. ‘Because I am a hunter,’ she said, ‘And hunters will hunt – it’s what they do.’

           

“The fox-crow moaned. ‘I wanted to help you.’

           

“‘You always do,’ murmured Aiko. ‘Few can resist the sight of a pretty girl crying.’

           

“’But your brother – ‘

           

“’My brother is a fool who can barely stand to be in the same room with me. But his greed is greater than his fear. So he stays, and drinks away his terror, and while you all crouch in the shadows watching his gun, I make my way through the woods.’

           

“Could it be true? Had it been Zhao who kept his distance, staying out until the early hours, drinking away his fear at the tavern? Had it been Aiko who had brought back the wolf-goat hide?

           

“Aiko’s silent knife sank deeper. She had no need for clumsy bows or noisy rifles. The fox-crow whimpered his pain.

           

“’It is always the same trap,’ she said gently. ‘You longed for conversation. The platypus-bear craved jokes. The wolf-goat wanted someone to tell her troubles to. Loneliness is the trap, my friend, and it ensnares us all.’

           

“Then her knife cut deeper, and the fox-crow cried out, and it was at that moment that the sparrow-mouse, who had been the first to spot Zhao, at the beginning of everything, dived from the trees. She fluttered wildly at Aiko, who snarled and lashed out with her knife, but the sparrow-mouse would not give up. Her claws raked Aiko’s face again, and again, until the girl fled, and then the sparrow-mouse pecked through the fox-crow’s bonds until he was free.

             

“Word soon spread about the girl with the scars on her face, from forest to forest, until all the animals in the land knew not to go near her. Ever since then, the fox-crow has owed a life debt to the sparrow-mouse, which is why you often see these two animals – who you would expect to be predator and prey – living in peace even now.”

           

Zuko falls silent, and Katara rests her hand on the turtleduck’s back. “What a terrible story,” she says, half-joking. “And I thought the tale of the girl and the tiger-shark was bad, Zuko.”

           

He runs a hand through his hair. “It _is_ pretty bad, isn’t it? But it’s beautiful too, don’t you think?”

           

“It is,” she says. “But maybe we should agree, from now on, to only tell each other funny stories. Like the story of the unlucky cabbage merchant. Have I ever told you that one?”

           

“I told you that story,” Zuko says, “because I thought you should hear it.”

           

She looks at him sharply; somewhere along the way, the moonlight has shifted, so he is sitting partially in shadow, but she can see tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he is watching her. “What do you mean?”

           

“Loneliness is the trap, Katara,” he says quietly, “and it ensnares us all. I think it’s something everyone should bear in mind.”

           

“Everyone,” retorts Katara, because there’s something in his voice that is setting her on edge, something like blame, something like reproach, “or me? You said you thought _I_ should hear it.”

           

The turtleduck flutters away from them at the irritation in her voice, jumping up before sliding back into the lake, feathers ruffled. Zuko watches it go for a moment, before he says, “I want to talk to you about Aang.”

           

“What about him?”

           

“I know you think you owe him –“

           

“I _do_ owe him, Zuko,” she says sharply – without quite knowing how, she realizes she’s on her feet, and so is he, following her as he has always done, forever her mirror, forever her echo. “We all owe him! He saved us.”

           

“Yes,” Zuko says, eyes burning, “but that’s not love.”

           

When he says that, Katara honestly feels as though she’s been slapped; her breath rushes out of her lungs, and she takes a step back. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, and then her voice begins to rise. “I’m tired of dancing around whatever issue you have going on, Zuko. If you have a point, make it.”

           

“Fine,” he says. “We both know Aang likes you, Katara, and let’s face it – he’d be stupid not to –“

           

Katara blinks at that sudden compliment, and tries to determine if the faint blush that stains his pale skin is embarrassment or anger. She thinks it might be both.

           

“And I want to make sure that if you ever decide to –“ He breaks off, rubbing his jaw in agitation. “If you ever – well, if you ever decide to _be_ with him, it isn’t for the wrong reasons. I want you to _think_ about this, Katara.”

           

“Don’t patronise me,” she retorts hotly. “What would the wrong reasons be then, Zuko? Enlighten me!”

           

“Loneliness!” he says without missing a beat. “Don’t fall into the trap of being with someone because you’re lonely! Don’t think you have to be with him because he’s the Avatar! You should be with someone because you lo – because you want to be.”

           

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Dimly, she is aware that the surface of the pond is beginning to roil; she tries to push down her anger, but it is too intense.

           

“I don’t know!” he says, almost shouts. “I was lonely for so many years, Katara – “ and although the words are sad, his tone is angry. “I know better than anyone how it can drive you to do things you might regret.”

           

Katara knows, even before she says the words, that what she says next will sting. They have always known how to strike each other, she and Zuko. They have always known how to hit the other where it will hurt. “Is this about you and Mai? What Aang and I have is _nothing_ like you and Mai.”

           

He jerks backward, and for a moment she is sorry, but the resentment comes roaring back just as fast. Who is Zuko to judge her? Who is he to tell her how to treat Aang? Then his face hardens, and Katara notices the leaves on the trees next to them are beginning to smoulder. Sparks are beginning to leap from branch to branch.

           

“I’m just trying to help you,” he says, and she snaps back, “Well, don’t! Did it ever occur to you, Zuko, that maybe how I’m treating Aang is nothing to do with being lonely? Did it ever occur to you that I might actually _want_ to be him?”

           

Abruptly, the sparks in the leaves go out.

           

Silence descends, so thick and heavy it feels almost oppressive. Katara can’t quite make out Zuko’s face, only the point of his chin in the shadows, the gleam of his eyes.

           

“Do you?” he asks finally, and all the anger in his voice is gone now, something which strikes Katara as strange – neither of them have ever been able to let go of their tempers very easily. But this is different. There’s something in the way he says it, something in the sound of his voice, a new note that paints the question with an emotion she can’t quite discern. Desperation, maybe. Fear. Urgency.

           

“That’s none of your business,” she replies coolly, despite the way her stomach is clenching in on itself, despite the way that something in her is shouting, even as she says the words, _no, Katara, that was the wrong thing to say, go back, go back_. “What does it matter to you, anyway? What happens with me and Aang?”

           

A beat, and then –

           

“It doesn’t,” he says, and Katara doesn’t know what she was expecting him to say, but suddenly she feels cold. A bone shifts near his jaw. Zuko has his Fire Lord face on, she can see now, the impassive mask he wears when he doesn’t want to reveal what he’s really thinking, a stark contrast to the fierce, open expression he’d worn just heartbeats earlier. “I just don’t want Aang to get hurt.”

           

“Is that all that concerns you?” she asks. “Aang’s feelings?”

           

“What else would there be?” he replies, and something in Katara’s chest tightens.

           

“Nothing,” she says, and for a moment they are staring at each other, across a distance that feels like a chasm. They have faced each other like this before – at the Spirit Oasis, beneath the caverns in Ba Sing Se – and something about tonight brings all those memories racing back. They are coiled like snakes, tensed like bowstrings. “Nothing at all.”

           

Then Zuko’s stance shifts, and he seems to collapse into himself. His shoulders sag, and he rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that has become so familiar to her that it hits her like a punch to the stomach. He looks at her, and the expression on his face is a surrender, a forfeit, but Katara doesn’t feel like she’s won. These kinds of fights can never have a victor; no matter how things fall, you’ve hurt the other person, and there has to be some loss associated with that.

             

He stays silent, letting her have the last word as she stalks off into the night. He lets her have that much, at least.

 

* * *

 

Zuko doesn’t see them off the next morning, and Katara doesn’t know if she’s relieved or anxious about that.

           

“Maybe he’s still sleeping,” says Aang as he saddles Appa. “It is pretty early.”

           

 _I rise with the sun_. Katara knows he isn’t sleeping. “Maybe,” she says.

           

“We’ll be back in a few days,” says Sokka. “There’s no need to wake him for this. Let’s go!”

           

Aang laughs as they scramble onto the bison’s back, who rumbles happily – it’s been too long since he’s flown. “Yip yip!” he calls, and as they rise into the sky, Katara twines her fingers into Appa’s shaggy coat and tries to put Zuko from her mind.

           

It’s easier than she thinks – as the hours pass, she begins to relax. Aang was right, earlier – _the three of us, just like old times_. There had been a time when these two people had been her world. There had been a time before she’d met Toph, before Suki had ever ambushed her, fans flying, before she’d ever known the colour of Zuko’s eyes, let alone studied the way they shifted as he laughed. There had been a time when Sokka and Aang had been enough.

           

The clouds drift past, and the three of them talk more than they have in weeks. Every sentence they say starts with the words _Remember the time when_.

           

“Did you guys ever think we’d get this far?” asks Aang, Momo curled around his shoulders like a neck pillow.

           

“Honestly?” says Sokka. “I’d never really thought this far ahead. I kind of planned from day to day, you know? Anything else was just too much.”

           

“What about you, Katara?” says Aang, and the way he smiles at her, so frank and joyful, makes her blink and turn away.

           

“I didn’t know we’d make it this far,” she says softly, reaching up to brush a cloud above her; her fingers come back cold and damp. The first time she’d ever done that, she’d been ecstatic – it had been a marvel then, a constant wonder, to travel the skies, to feel like if she’d stretched just far enough, she could touch the sun. “But I hoped we would.”

           

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Sokka says, “What about you, Momo?”

           

Momo chatters at them, and they laugh, and Katara feels her heart warm as they soar, the wind rushing past.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly sunset when they land, and Master Piandao is waiting for them, having received the message Sokka sent. (“Maybe we should surprise him,” Aang had suggested, and Sokka had said, “Sure, if you want surprising him to be _the last thing you ever do_. Do you know how many swords Master Piandao has lying around? I’d rather not catch him unawares.”) 

           

“Sokka, Katara, Avatar Aang,” he says warmly, and then his face jerks in surprise as Sokka embraces him. Awkwardly, he pats Sokka’s shoulder. “It’s wonderful to see you, Sokka.”

           

“And you too, Master. How have you been? Look, I brought you a drawing I made of you. It’s a little rough, but I think it captures you perfectly.”

           

Katara stifles a laugh as Piandao glances at the proffered paper with horror. He clears his throat. “This is, um, lovely, Sokka,” he says, and Sokka beams. “Come, you must be hungry. I have dinner waiting inside.”

           

The meal is pleasant, if simple. Piandao listens with great interest to the events happening in the Fire Nation court, expresses regret that he couldn’t make it to Zuko’s ball. All three of them badger the old master for information regarding the Order of the White Lotus, which he refuses to impart. Sokka regales him with tales about his new swordmaster in the capital, demonstrating with his chopsticks – at one point, a piece of his food flies off and hits the wall. Sokka is banned from using chopsticks for the rest of his stay, and Aang laughs so hard he almost falls off his chair.

           

The next day is just as enjoyable. Katara and Aang watch Sokka spar with Piandao in the courtyard in the morning, and head to the market in the afternoon. After so many weeks in the capital, Katara’s forgotten what it’s like to walk around a small town, how comfortably quiet it can be. She and Aang are recognised, but not by many, and it’s the most peace she’s known in a while. The day slips past, and then the next.

           

The night before they leave, Katara is sitting in the courtyard, head tipped back, looking at the stars. The air is warm, and she would feel serene if it wasn’t for the small knot of tension in her belly at the thought of returning. She wonders what she’ll say when she sees Zuko again. She wonders how he’s been.

             

“Hey,” says Aang, and she turns her head to see him smiling at her. “What are you doing out here?”

           

 _You rise with the moon_. “I couldn’t sleep.”

           

“Me neither. I thought about taking Appa out for a night ride. Wanna come?”

           

“Sure,” she says, and she follows him up onto the bison. They ascend, and Katara closes her eyes, relishing the cool breeze.

           

“So, um, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” says Aang, and something in his voice makes her open her eyes.

           

“You know how Sokka said he was probably going to leave for the Earth Kingdom soon?” he continues, referring to a conversation they’d had over dinner the night before.

           

Katara nods. She’d known that this day was coming, that it had only been a matter of time before her brother had left, but his announcement had left her feeling unsteady.

           

“I, uh, noticed you didn’t say anything,” Aang continues. “Are you thinking of going with him?”

           

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” says Katara truthfully.

           

“Because if you weren’t,” says Aang, and when he turns around to look at her, his eyes are uncertain and hopeful, “Maybe you could come with me.”

           

And Katara has known from the moment she saw him in the courtyard, from before that even, for weeks and weeks, that this is what everything between her and Aang has been building up to. Zuko’s voice whispers in the back of her mind, _I know you think you owe him_. She studies Aang’s face in front of her, his expression nervous and tentative and so, so young, _but that’s not love_.

             

“Where?” she asks, to buy time.

           

“I’m not sure yet,” Aang admits, playing with Appa’s reins. “But I was thinking of visiting the rest of the Air Temples. Maybe see if there’s anything else I can find there, any scrolls that might have been left behind. And then, who knows? I’m the Avatar. I’m always going to be needed somewhere.”

           

He looks up at the sky for a heartbeat, then back at her. “But I thought about restoring one of the Air Temples too. Maybe start a school. There has to be other airbenders out there. Maybe they were forced into hiding by the Fire Nation, but the war’s over. They don’t have to hide anymore. I’m sure they’re out there. I can’t be the last one, Katara.” His voice wavers for a moment. “I can’t be the only one.”

           

 _Loneliness is the trap_. “Oh, Aang.”

           

He smiles at her, a little shaky. “It’s fine. I’m just saying, there’s a lot of places I’m planning to go. Maybe you could come with me.”

           

Katara closes her eyes for a heartbeat. _Who are you? And what do you want?_

           

“I can’t go with you, Aang.”

           

“We wouldn’t have to go right away,” Aang says. “If you wanted to stay in the Fire Nation a while longer. Or if you wanted to go to the South Pole for a bit! That would be fine too. In fact, maybe we could –“

           

“No, Aang,” she says, and she watches his face fall. She swallows. “I can’t go with _you_.”

           

“I don’t understand,” he says, but they both know he does. Appa rumbles, and begins to descend, and Katara sees that Aang’s knees are pressed hard into the bison’s back.

           

“I can’t… I don’t feel the same way you do, and I’m sorry –“

           

“After the Ember Island Players,” he says, and his voice is shaking, “You said you needed time. And I gave you time! I didn’t bring it up with you at all – I didn’t press you – “

           

“I know you didn’t –“

           

“And these past few weeks… I thought maybe you –“

           

“I know,” she says. “But I didn’t. I don’t.”

           

Appa lands, and Aang leaps off his back, the kind of jump that would be dangerous to anyone but an airbender. He lands lightly, and Katara has to make do with sliding down the bison’s side. She stands a few feet away from him, uncertain how close he wants her.

           

They’re still for a few moments, and then he turns to face her. He blinks, and his eyes are too bright. “But you have to,” he says, and he blinks again. His throat convulses. Katara blinks too; somewhere along the way her eyes have begun to water.

           

Aang runs a hand down his face, smiles at her sadly. “You’re my forever girl, Katara,” he says, and he laughs a little, painfully, helplessly, in a way that makes her throat ache. Katara has heard Aang laugh a hundred times before, a thousand times, but never quite like this.

           

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

           

“I love you,” he whispers back, and by now both of them are crying in the moonlight. Katara knows, somewhere, deep inside her, that it was always going to end like this, that they were always going to end like this, but she could never have foreseen how much it would hurt Aang.

             

She could never have foreseen how much it would hurt her, either. The pain opens up in her stomach like a chasm. Her throat is too tight. The tears are streaming down her cheeks.

           

“ _I love you_ ,” he repeats, and he turns away from her, shaking. His breath catches in his throat in little gasps, and he wraps his arms around himself.

           

“Aang,” she says, because what else can she say?

           

 _I know_. Because she does know, of course she does, that Aang has loved her so much and so long that she can hardly remember what life was like when he didn’t.

           

 _I_ _'_ _m sorry_. Because she is. She has never, ever wanted to hurt him.

           

 _I love you too_. Because of course she does. There are some people in your life you cannot help but love, and ever since Aang came into hers –

           

(A boy falling into her arms as an iceberg falls apart; gray eyes bright as they open into hers; _Will you go penguin sledding with me?_ )

           

\- she has known, has always known, that Aang is one of those people, that she will love him now and forever.

           

But not in the way he wants. Never in the way he wants.

           

Katara watches helplessly as Aang cries, his shoulders trembling, but she does not go to him. There are some things in life that you have to weather alone. There are some burdens no one else can help you lift.

           

Then he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and almost instinctively Katara steps forward to put her arms around him.

           

There are some things in life that you have to weather alone. There are some burdens no one else can help you lift.

           

But Katara has never been able to turn her back on people who need her.

 

* * *

 

 

The flight back to Piandao’s courtyard is tense and miserable, and Aang jumps off the bison and disappears inside the house before Appa has fully landed. Katara slides down the bison, and rests her forehead against his side for a minute, woolly fur brushing her nose.

           

Appa grunts, and swings his head around to look at her with one large eye. Katara could be imagining it, but it seems that the bison is looking at her accusingly, and the thought is enough to make her bite her lip, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she whispers, and Appa blinks, once, slowly, gaze softening. He licks her gently, and Katara sighs, heading back to her room.

           

She sits on her bed for what seems like hours until there’s a knock on her door – two short raps, and then one long knock, the signal she and Sokka came up with back when they were kids. “Go away, Sokka,” she says, voice thick, so of course he comes in.

           

“Jeez, you look awful,” he says, and sits next to her.

           

She sighs. “What are you doing here?”

           

“Well, I was in the middle of having a really good dream – I’m not gonna go into specifics, but two words: _space boomerang_ – when Aang comes barging into our room. He looked like a mess, too.” He hesitates. “He told me what happened – not in a lot of detail, but enough. I thought maybe you’d want to talk to me too.”

           

So she does. When she’s finished, she rests her head on her brother’s shoulder, and he puts an arm around her comfortingly, the way they’ve done for so long, the way he did when their mum died, when their dad left, when it was just the two of them against the world.

           

“I can’t believe it,” he says, and the incredulity in his voice is enough, even through Katara’s sadness, to make her indignant.

           

“What, that Aang could like me? What’s not to believe?” she huffs.

           

“Not that he could like you! That he could like anyone!” Sokka pauses, gathering his thoughts in order. “I thought he was a monk!” he says, and despite herself, Katara laughs.

           

“What? He’s an Air Nomad, isn’t he? I thought they were all monks!”

           

“How did you think Air Nomads were born, Sokka?”

           

“ _Ugh!_ ” He shudders, and she smiles in the darkness. They sit together in companionable silence for a while.

           

“For what it’s worth,” Sokka says, “I think you did the right thing.”

           

“Really? A lot of people would probably disagree with you there. I mean, Aang’s the Avatar and everything.”

           

“Yeah, and he’s a good guy. I’m not saying he’s not. And, you know, as your big brother, I’m not super excited about the idea of you dating anyone, but I’d agree – you could do a lot worse than Aang. Still…” He shrugs. “If you don’t like him that way, what’s the point? You should be with someone who makes you happy.”

           

“Thanks, Sokka. It’s nice to know you have my back.”

           

“I’ll always have your back,” Sokka says, gently chucking her under the chin. She looks into his eyes for a moment; blue, the exact same shade as her own.

           

It’s been so long, since she’s seen eyes that colour, and for a moment she thinks about going back to the South Pole, thinks about accompanying her brother to the Earth Kingdom, but she knows she won’t. Katara can’t quite explain it to herself, but she knows that for now, she has to remain in the Fire Nation.

 

Something’s not quite finished here. Something hasn’t started.

           

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she says quietly, and he sighs.

           

“We all have to go our own ways, Katara. You know that. But I’ll always be there if you need me. No matter what, no matter when, no matter where.”

           

“I know,” she says, and Sokka gets to his feet, ruffling her hair.

           

“And hey,” he says, mock-sternly, when he gets to the door, “Just because I won’t be around after this doesn’t mean you can get yourself into all kinds of trouble, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”

           

“ _Water Tribe_ ,” she says – an old joke between them now – and he grins at her before closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot - and I mean a _lot_ \- of feels writing this chapter. I love Suki, and Toph, and Zuko more than you know, but I think I'll always have a soft spot for the original team Avatar, the golden trio, back when it was three kids, a lemur, and a bison. 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about Aang and Katara too. Everyone and their grandmother knows I ship Zutara, but I do think it is irrefutable that Katara loved Aang too. It might not have been the way he wanted, but it was there. I hope this chapter helps, even a little, to pay homage to their relationship.
> 
> Comments and reviews are always appreciated!


	6. What Would You Have Done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight Rainbow Rowell references.
> 
> The penultimate chapter! One more to go. If you're reading this, thanks for coming along for the ride :)

One week later, Katara is alone in the Fire Nation, except for Zuko.

           

The flight back from Shu Jing to the capital had been awkward – Aang and Katara sitting as far away from each other as they can on Appa’s back, with Sokka making uneasy jokes in between them – and the few days after that hadn’t been much better, either.

           

Aang had spent most of the time on Appa, making day trips out of the capital so as to avoid being in the palace, while Katara had spent most of her time at the House of Healing, or in the palace library. They hadn’t spoken much, and Katara knows that this fact isn’t lost on Zuko, who studies them with intense eyes, head tilted.

             

Zuko doesn’t ask, though, and she doesn’t volunteer the information. They haven’t spoken properly since their fight before she left. She hasn’t been to the turtleduck pond since then, either. Breakfasts are quiet, polite occasions now – the one saving grace being Sokka, who revels in the fact that he is allowed to use chopsticks now.

           

Then, on the third day after Shu Jing, Katara looks up from the book she’s reading to find Aang standing a few feet away. They look at each other for what feels like heartbeats upon heartbeats. Katara’s surprised to find how much she’s missed him; this is the first time in days that he’s looked at her properly, that he hasn’t turned away every time she’s tried to glance at him. His familiar gray eyes are sad.

           

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says, and swallows hard. “I just thought I should let you know.”

           

“Where will you go?” she asks him softly, closing her book.

           

“I’m not sure yet. Appa and I will figure it out on the way. I can’t stay here anymore.”

           

“Aang –“ she says, and he smiles at her, just a little, and she falls silent. She isn’t used to this kind of expression from Aang, who normally grins wider than anyone she’s known. Half-smiles are Zuko’s province, and seeing one on Aang’s face gives her pause.

           

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I don’t want things between us to be this way, Katara. I don’t want to lose you.”

           

“Neither do I.”

           

“But I can’t stay here anymore. Maybe things will be okay between us one day, but right now it hurts, you know? Looking at you. It hurts.”

           

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Spirits, Aang, I’m so sorry –“

           

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, and his eyes slide away from hers. “I just… I have to go.”

           

“I understand,” she says, and he nods, once.

           

“I’m going tomorrow morning,” he says. “Early. Sunrise. If you wanted to come see me off.”

           

“Always,” she says, and he looks at her, briefly.

           

“What about you?” he asks. “Sokka’s going in a few days. What are you going to do?”

           

“I’ll figure that out too,” she says, and Aang nods, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

           

The next morning, when they gather to say goodbye, Katara hesitates, and Aang does too, but eventually they embrace. He holds her tight, her iceberg boy, her gray-eyed Avatar, who is almost taller than she is, now, and Katara says goodbye to yet another piece of her heart. It’s strange how far the people she loves are drifting away from her.

           

“I’m going to miss you so much, Aang,” she whispers. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way.”

           

“Me neither,” he says, and for a moment they draw apart and look at each other. There is still pain in his eyes, but she thinks she can see something else, too. Affection. Forgiveness. Grace.

           

There is so much to say. And at the same time, there is nothing to be said.

           

“Goodbye,” he says, and she stands back with Zuko and Sokka beside her to wave the Avatar off, as Appa trumpets a farewell, as Momo chatters at them, and they soar into the blue.

 

* * *

 

Her goodbye to Sokka, a few days later, is just as emotional. They stand on the docks for a while, watching as the sailors on the ship Sokka’s hitched a ride on make ready the final arrangements before they cast off.

           

“I’m thinking of taking Suki to the South Pole after this,” Sokka says.

           

“Yeah?”

           

“Yeah. Show her around, introduce her to the family. Introduce her to snow! I can’t believe she’s never seen it.” Sokka grins. “Maybe I’ll introduce a great big snowball to her face.”

           

“Remind me again – _why_ is Suki dating you?”

           

“Eh. It’s the charm. Runs in the family.”

           

“The family, huh?”

           

“Oh, yeah. Look at Gran-Gran. She managed to land Grandpakku at, what, a hundred years old? And look at you. You managed to get the Avatar. Well. And then you rejected him.”

           

“Jerk,” she says, elbowing him, but there’s no heat in her voice. They’re quiet for a bit, and then Sokka squares his shoulders. “I should go,” he says. “They’re almost ready.”

           

“Yeah,” she says, and then she hugs him tight. His arms are strong around her. She thinks that this might be the hardest goodbye yet – her brother, her family, her north star. She thinks of all they’ve gone through this past year alone, let alone all they’ve been through since the beginning, back when it had been just the two of them on the ice.

           

 _It_ _’s the quenchiest. My flying sister. I have a natural curiosity. Boomerang!_

           

“Remember,” he says hoarsely, and Katara thinks he might be crying, a little. “No matter what, no matter when, no matter where. I’ll be there if you need me.”

           

“Right back at you,” she says, and finally they break apart and he walks up the gangplank. They wave at each other as the ship begins to set sail. When he is almost too far away to hear, she cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Sokka!”

           

“What!” he shouts back.

           

“Throw a snowball for me!” she says, and she thinks she sees her brother salute her.

 

* * *

 

Katara’s mood is sombre after that. After a quiet dinner, she returns to her room, where she stretches out on her bed, reading. The hours pass, and the moon rises in the sky, and still she isn’t tired.

           

Katara wonders if she’s become an insomniac. She wonders if Iroh has a tea that would help to cure that; she’s willing to bet that he does. She wonders, briefly, if there exists a tea that can help to rid loneliness. She wonders if she should go to the turtleduck pond, for old times’ sake.

           

Then there is a knock on her door.

           

Tilting her head, she studies the door for a moment. Who could that be at this hour? She wonders if she should pretend to be asleep; the knock was light enough that only someone already awake would have heard it. But curiosity gets the better of her, and she swings her legs out of bed to pad over. She knows, deep in her stomach, even before she opens it, who it will be.

           

Zuko stands outside her room, hands jammed in his pockets. He blinks, looking surprised, as if he hadn’t really expected her to answer. She looks at him for a moment, then away. It’s been days since their fight, and since then they’ve been nothing but warily polite to each other, but seeing him still makes her stomach churn uncomfortably.

           

Partly it’s anger. Partly it’s bitterness, that he was right. And partly it’s that she’s missed him, more than she ever thought she would, so much it hurts.

           

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he says carefully. “Were you sleeping?”

           

“No. What’s up?”

           

“Actually,” he says. “I was wondering if you were up for a field trip.”

 

* * *

 

It turns out that a dam has been planned for construction, near a village a few days journey from the Fire Nation capital. It turns out that the construction has been jeopardized by the pollution of the river nearby – a pollution attributed to the activities of a nearby factory, filthy and poorly maintained. It turns out that Zuko needs Katara’s help to clean the water.

           

“Okay,” she’d said that night as he’d stood in her doorway. “But why are you going? I can handle the river by myself.”

           

“I know,” he’d said. “But somebody has to be there to discipline the factory overseer, to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

           

“Oh, I could do that,” she’d replied, and a smile had ghosted over his face, so quickly that Katara wasn’t sure if she’d seen it.

           

“I’m sure you could,” he’d said, wry voice a rasp in the dark. “But you can leave that to me.”

           

“Why, though?” she’d pressed. “Any one of your ministers could do it. Surely the Fire Lord has better things to do.”

           

Something had flickered over his face. “Not really.”

           

“You’re a terrible liar, Zuko.”

           

“And you,” he’d said, turning away, “should get some rest. We leave tomorrow afternoon.” He’d paused. “Thank you, Katara.”

           

“Don’t worry about it,” she’d said, and he’d left.

           

Now they’re sailing down a small river, on a steamboat that chugs steadily on, plowing through the water the way Appa slices through the air. It’s a smaller contingent than Katara had expected – just over thirty men, and that’s including Zuko’s personal retinue, his seneschal and personal guards.

           

“No need to draw attention to the fact that I’m not in the capital,” Zuko had said, when she’d remarked on it. “We’ll only be gone a few days.”

           

She sits on the deck, eating the last of her dinner when the word ‘bandits’ draws her attention. Not far from her, some of Zuko’s guards are in deep discussion. She can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but she gets the gist: over the past few weeks, there have been a series of attacks on the villages near the river, thieves who break in and make off with whatever valuables their victims have on hand. The guards stare suspiciously into the night, at the dark riverbanks rushing past them, rest their hands on the swords by their sides.

           

Katara sees Zuko leaning on a pole nearby, head tilted as he listens, and a suspicion begins to form, one that hardens into an iron certainty when she manages to sneak a look into his bags later. She doesn’t say anything to him, but she keeps a close eye, studies how he seems to grow tenser as they draw closer to their destination. It’s not a tension born of fear, though – Katara has known Zuko long enough now, well enough, to think that instead, it’s anticipation.

           

When they arrive, Katara takes great pleasure in watching Zuko descend on the factory overseer, in seeing the sheer panic on the man’s face. After a thunderous admonishment, Zuko extracts a heavy fine and a fervent apology, and then it is Katara’s turn.

           

She steps into the river, closes her eyes, and reaches out with her powers. Lost in concentration, she doesn’t notice how she looks from the riverbank, a slight girl with arms spread, head tipped back, as the water around her begins to swirl, lifting her hair, illuminating her in cool, wavy light. She doesn’t see the fascination that’s on the faces of people watching. She doesn’t see the way Zuko’s eyes soften.

           

It takes her the better part of an afternoon, but eventually the water runs clear, to cheers from the villagers. She stumbles out of the river – purifying it has taken more energy than she’d thought – and several people step forward, but Zuko is there before any of them, catching her arm.

           

For a moment, her whole weight is pressed against him. The last time they were this close, it was at his ball, on the dance floor. She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing as he steadies her with a hand at her waist. Then he lets go, and turns away.

           

That night, they spend the night at a small castle owned by a nobleman who lives not far from the village, who nearly falls over himself in an attempt to offer his hospitality to the Fire Lord. Dinner is a boisterous affair; their host does not stand on ceremony, and the wine flows freely.

           

Katara watches as Zuko, quiet throughout the meal, excuses himself, claiming a headache. Everyone stands respectfully as he rises, and then leaves for his chamber. She counts to sixty before following, thanking the earl for his generosity.

           

Zuko’s chamber is just down the hall from hers. Katara glances out one of the windows and sees the night is still young – the stars have only just begun to emerge. She settles herself down in the shadows, and resigns herself to a wait.

           

She waits there for hours, listening with amusement to the din below; on the boat and sober, the guards are the picture of discipline; inebriated, they are bright and bawdy, singing merry drinking songs. She wonders at the stark difference between their wariness on the boat and their carefreeness now, but remembers that the earl’s castle is defended by his own guards – probably, Zuko’s guards have decided to take a night off, secure in the knowledge that they are protected.

           

The hours slip by, and Katara’s eyes grow heavy. The racket below has died down, and she guesses that everyone has gone to bed. The moon emerges from behind the clouds. Just when she’s decided to go to sleep herself, Zuko’s door opens.

           

Immediately alert, she rises to her feet, still hidden in the shadows. Zuko slips out, silent as a cat on his feet, and Katara feels a surge of triumph when she sees what he’s wearing – all black, the same clothes she’d seen packed in his bags, the same clothes he’d worn when they’d gone to find Yon Rha together, so long ago now.

           

“Going somewhere?” she asks, and immediately winces – she’d been waiting for hours; you’d think she’d have been able to come up with something wittier. She can almost hear Sokka’s exasperated voice in her head (“Going somewhere? Sure, why _don’t_ you say the most cliché thing in the book, Katara!”)

           

Cliché or not though, it has the desired effect – Zuko jumps a little, then immediately tries his best to look casual, leaning against the door, running his hand through his hair. Her lips twitch in amusement, even as she tries to look stern and implacable. “Hey, Katara. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

           

“I like your outfit,” she says, and for a moment Zuko looks like he’s about to bluff his way out, but she narrows her eyes at him, and he relents.

           

“You’re going after those bandits, aren’t you? I knew it! I knew you wanted to come here for a reason.”

           

“The bandits have been troubling the villages along the river for weeks now. I received several reports days ago, and I was going to send a group of soldiers after them, but…” Zuko shrugs. “I figured I’d just take care of them myself.”

           

“Sounds fun,” Katara says. “I haven’t had a good fight in ages.”

           

His jaw clenches. “I’m going alone, Katara.”

           

“No,” she says. “You’re not.”

           

“Yes, I am!” He glares at her, his amber eyes brilliant in the dark. “This is _my_ mission. These are _my_ people. This is _my_ responsibility. You don’t need to –“

           

“I want to help! I can take care of myself.”

           

“I know you can,” he says, and Katara knows he’s speaking the truth; that he has never underestimated her. “So take care of yourself here, in the castle. This is Fire Nation business. I’ll see you in the morning.”

           

“No! I’m coming with you.”

           

“You’re staying here.”

           

“Try and stop me. What are you going to do, tie my hands to a tree? Haven’t we moved past that, Zuko?”

           

They glower at each other in silence, but Katara sees Zuko’s eyes slide past her, to the window. Anxiety flits over his features for a moment, and Katara knows it’s because they’re wasting time.

           

“I’m coming with you, Zuko,” she says quietly. “You don’t even know how many of them there are going to be. You can’t fight alone.”

           

“Yes, I can,” he retorts. “I’ve fought alone almost all my life.”

           

“I know. Then maybe what I should’ve said,” Katara says, “is that you don’t _have_ to fight alone anymore. I’m here, Zuko. Let me _help_ you.”

           

Zuko looks at her, and for a moment she thinks she can see relief on his features, but it disappears before she can be certain. He takes a deep breath. “Stay close,” he tells her, and with a fierce joy she falls into step beside him.

           

It’s easier than she’d expected, sneaking out of the castle – all the guards are focused on people trying to break into the castle, not the opposite, so they slip out without the alarm being raised. They stay silent for several minutes afterward, moving among the trees next to the riverbank.

           

“How did you know they’d be here?” she asks; next to her, Zuko looks like a shadow in his dark clothes, his tread swift and sure and silent.

           

“They’ve been moving more or less in a straight line,” he tells her. “Striking one village, and then the next. It wasn’t too hard.”

           

“If that’s the case, wouldn’t the village here already be prepared for them? If they know the bandits are coming?”

           

“They are. Didn’t you notice? They’ve already built fortifications, already stationed guards there.”

           

“Then what are we –“

           

“I want,” says Zuko, and something passes over his face, like a shadow, “to deal with them myself.”

           

She nods, then says, “But how are we going to find them tonight?”

           

“I have some ideas. Uncle taught me some techniques that I think might come in handy.”

           

“What kinds of techniques?”

           

“Two words,” Zuko says. “Body heat. Now keep quiet.”

           

She sticks her tongue out at his imperious tone, and he rolls his eyes, but she obeys, lapsing into silence. She watches as Zuko narrows his eyes, tilts his head, then moves with new purpose, heading deeper into the trees. She studies the way he walks, almost like he’s following a scent, and realizes – _body heat_. He must be tracking them by their body heat, and the thought makes her shiver. She isn’t afraid of firebending anymore, not as a rule, but the way Zuko’s eyes gleam in the moonlight is enough to set her on edge.

           

They walk for what seems like hours, but soon Katara can see the flicker of firelight ahead of her, hear the distant rumble of voices. The bandits have chosen their hideout well; a sheltered clearing, well hidden by the trees, easily defended.

           

She and Zuko pause a few feet away, withdrawing into the shadows of the trees. He cocks his head. “Ten,” he says, focusing. “I think there are ten of them.”

           

“So few?” Katara says. “How did they manage to attack whole villages?”

           

“You’d be surprised how much havoc a few people can wreak, if they have the advantage of surprise,” says Zuko, and he looks at her then, his face imbued with a terrible kind of fervour, the same kind of hunger she feels coursing through her; the urge to strike those who would attack the helpless. For now, their fight at the turtleduck pond all those days ago is forgotten. “After all,” Zuko says, “Isn’t that what we’re counting on?”

           

She salutes him. “Ready when you are.”

           

“Stay close,” he says to her again, and for a heartbeat she wants to tell him, _Always_. But he is already bounding up the slope to deal with the lookout he’s seen. A flash of fire illuminates the night, and Katara winces for a moment, afraid that the bandits have seen, but there is no uproar from the clearing below them.

           

She and Zuko tie up the unconscious guard with some rope he’s brought, and then Zuko says, voice low, “There’s another lookout just across from us. Can you –“

           

She’s gone before he’s done talking, darting across to the man scanning the area in front of him. She twitches her fingers, and the water from the river next to her rises up, silent. It darts across to catch the man by his ankle; his cry of surprise is muffled by the water that snakes around to cover his mouth. Within seconds, she and Zuko are tying this man up as well.

           

 _Eight more_ , she thinks. Eight isn’t so very many. She nods at Zuko, and together they move towards the clearing. “Ready?” he breathes, and she grins at him, feral in the dark. “When you are.”

           

They leap out, and Zuko proclaims, his voice ringing and terrible, “Bandits! You have stolen, and you have burned, and you have destroyed the livelihoods of innocents! Prepare to face our wrath!”

           

Katara is startled to see that even dressed in plain black, without his crown, without his soldiers, Zuko is as regal a figure as any in the moonlight, his face drawn and fierce with anger, flames crackling around him. The bandits below them must share her sentiment; they gape at the two for several long moments, which provides them with ample time to charge down the slope and attack.

           

Katara spins to the side, calling the creek; the water rushes to encircle her in great whips and she laughs, wildly, as they roar towards her attackers, knocking them off their feet. The waves crest beneath her feet as she surges towards them, wielding ice whips in both her hands. She strikes at the bandits, knocking two unconscious and sending a third stumbling backwards.

           

A fourth man rushes towards her, snarling; abruptly, Katara releases the water beneath her feet and she falls as the wave disintegrates; his machete _swishes_ through the empty air where she’d just been standing. She has time to see the surprise on the man’s face as she tumbles to the ground, sliding between his legs, grabbing hold of his ankle and yanking as the water carries her past. He goes down, heavily, and the water props Katara upright a heartbeat later. She whirls past, kicking at him hard enough to knock him out.

           

Dimly, she is aware of flames crashing beside her, intermittent blasts of heat and light. Zuko strikes out, eyes bright, as the fire roars from his hands, ripples out from the air as he leaps and kicks. Already he’s secured three bandits with fiery ropes around their hands and ankles – Katara is concerned for a moment that the flames will eat into their flesh, but when she looks closer she sees that the bindings are hot, but not burning. Zuko would never be that cruel, she thinks, with a glow of pride.

           

Zuko leaps into the air, twenty feet high, and strikes out at the last bandit. A ring of flames surges towards the terrified man, bowls him over into the ground, and resolves into the same fiery ropes that bind the other three, winding down his body to tighten around his wrists and ankles as he shouts in rage.

           

Zuko lands, lightly, and pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. His scar is dark in the moonlight. “Are you okay?” he calls, making his way over to her, and she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I think we got eve –“

           

The breath rushes out of her lungs as something catches her by the ankle, rough and stinging. She cries out in pain, and in the second between that moment and the one when she falls she remembers the man she’d sent stumbling back with the water, but had forgotten to incapacitate. _One more_! Then her head hits the ground, and everything is black for a second.

 

* * *

 

“Katara? Katara, can you hear me?”

           

Katara blinks hazily, once, twice. Zuko’s face is hovering above hers, more unguarded than she’s seen it in a long, long time. Fear is etched into every line, in the set of his mouth, bright in his eyes. She groans, raises a hand to her temple and finds it crusted with dried blood. Her ankle is burning.

           

“Spirits,” she grates out, and relief, terrible and unyielding, sweeps across Zuko’s face. He looks away for a second, his throat moving, and for one brief moment Katara can see the boy he used to be, traced in the silver moonlight, young and vulnerable.

           

“You’re okay,” he rasps, turning back to look at her. She blinks back at him, and realizes that she’s lying with her head in Zuko’s lap, his hands cradling her head. She struggles to sit up, and he helps her – “Easy, easy.”

           

“What happened?”

           

“We missed one. He caught your ankle with a whip, and you fell.”

           

“Where is he?”

           

Zuko’s jaw tightens. “Taken care of.” 

           

Katara looks past his shoulder to see all the bandits – including the two lookouts she and Zuko had incapacitated earlier – unconscious and in a pile, their hands and ankles bound with rope. 

           

“What are we going to do with them?”

           

“They’ll be out for a few hours. I’ll send some soldiers here at dawn to get them. But are you okay? You hit your head pretty hard.”

           

Katara gently touches her temple, trying to determine the extent of the damage, then releases a sigh. “It’s just a scratch. It probably looks worse than it is – head wounds bleed a lot.”

           

Zuko studies her for a moment, and then nods. “We’d better get back.”

           

But when Katara tries to get up, pain lances its way up her leg, and her ankle gives way like a piece of damp paper. She stumbles, and Zuko catches her as she cries out. “I don’t – I don’t think I can walk,” she says.

           

“Is your ankle broken?” asks Zuko, and his voice is full of concern – and anger too, so intense she almost flinches.

           

She reaches down to prod it, putting her other arm around his shoulders. “No… I think it’s just sprained.”

           

“Okay. Look, we’ll make our way to the river. You can heal yourself there.”

           

They limp their way over, and Katara can’t help letting out a sigh of relief as the water curls its way around her foot, glowing blue, cool and gentle. Pain flares in her ankle sharply, briefly, as the muscles work their way back into place, and she leans against Zuko’s chest. She can feel his heart against her spine, firm and steady.

           

Katara bends to wash the blood from her face, and turns to him. “Are you okay?”

           

“Just a few scrapes. Nothing to worry about. Are you sure you’re good to go?”

           

“I’m fine,” she says. “I guess we’d better start heading back.”

           

He hesitates, looking her over, before nodding. “We’ll go slow,” he assures her, and Katara doesn’t say how relieved she is to hear that – she still feels a little shaky on her feet.  

           

It’s a long journey, made all the longer for the fact that they are travelling in silence. Katara isn’t sure why – now that they’ve dispatched the bandits, there’s no need for stealth. There are a thousand things she wants to talk to Zuko about; all of the days they’ve spent not-quite-ignoring each other has been harder for her than she’ll ever admit. But when she glances sideways at Zuko, his jaw is clenched tight.

           

They slip back undetected into the castle – Zuko using his abilities to track the body heat of the guards – and make their way upstairs until they reach her room, where she sinks down onto her bed gratefully. Zuko leaves for a moment, and then returns with glasses of water.

           

They drink long and deep; the fight and the long trek back and forth has left both of them tired and thirsty. She puts her glass down, sighs, and is just turning to face him when Zuko clears his throat, eyes shadowed.

           

“Is it okay if I try something?” he says, carefully, and she nods.

           

Her heart skips as he slides off the bed to sit on the floor, gently taking her ankle in one hand. Something about the sight of his head bowed near her feet, the feel of his warm hand – which is so much larger than she’d ever thought, big enough that his thumb can reach around to the rest of his fingers – as he cradles the slender bone of her ankle makes something start to pulse in her stomach, and a little lower, making its way up her chest, down her legs.

           

She places a hand on his shoulder for support, and when he turns to look, both of them are very aware that his lips are just inches away from her skin. She takes a shaky breath in. Her heart is thrumming in her chest like a hummingbird, and for a moment she is afraid he can feel her pulse through the slim arch of her foot.

           

“What did you want to try?” she asks.

           

He blinks. “Right.” Looking back down, she sees his eyes close for a moment, and then she gasps as his hand begins to grow warm, almost as if it’s heating up. She cranes her head to see; it’s hard to make out anything past the curve of his shoulders and dark hair below her, but she can’t see any flames in his palm, the way she’s grown accustomed to seeing Zuko summon.

           

“Are you… firebending?”

           

“Kind of. Uncle taught me this once – it’s a way to heat your body, without letting the fire escape your skin. You have to keep it there, just under the surface… I’m not explaining it very well.”

           

“No, I think I get it,” she says, as the skin of his palm continues to grow hotter. The warmth is wonderful on her sore muscles; involuntarily, she lets out a sigh as he begins to massage her foot, gently, rubbing his thumb into the slender knob of her ankle bone. Already her sprain is beginning to feel better; she tips her head back and exhales. “That feels amazing, Zuko.”

           

“Good,” he says, not looking up.

           

“So, hey, I think we did a pretty good job, don’t you?” Katara says. “With the bandits and everything. All in a night’s work, right?”

           

“ _A good job_?” he echoes incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

           

“Okay, so the thing with my ankle kind of set us back, but –“

           

“Katara,” he interrupts, and then shakes his head, irritably. “Forget it.”

           

She studies him for a moment, his bowed head, the line of his jaw taut in the dark. Moonlight is streaming in over them from the open window, illuminating half of him in light silver, the other in deep shadow.

           

 _Chiaroscuro_ , is what she thinks, apropos of nothing. Her charcoal-drawn boy, ink-sketched in the dark, as he has been every other night they’ve spent together, talking and laughing and sparring. She can see the trajectory from the first night they’ve been together, just the two of them, him holding her as she cried under the stars, to now, Zuko kneeling at her feet like a supplicant paying homage. She can see it all.

           

She’s tired of fighting him.

           

(She’s tired of fighting this.)

           

“Hey,” she says, quietly. “Are you angry at me?”

           

“No.”

           

“He said, angrily.”

           

“Okay, then, yes. If I knew you were going to get hurt, I would never have let you come with me.”

           

“That’s not all, though,” she says, and she sees him swallow. His fingers pause on her ankle, and then resume kneading, but slower now, more tentatively. “You’ve been angry at me for ages, now.”

           

“So have you.”

           

“I didn’t want to be,” Katara says. “I didn’t. I don’t.”

           

“Neither do I,” he says, reticent as always, and despite the way her heart is beginning to slam against her ribs, despite the way her stomach is starting to thrill, she feels a wave of frustration at his aloofness.

           

“I told Aang I didn’t want to be with him,” she says, and this gets his attention – she feels him breathe in suddenly, sharply. The warmth in his palm flares, for a moment.

           

“That’s good,” he rasps. “I mean, if that’s what you wanted. He deserves to know.”

           

“Yes. What do you think about it?”

           

“It’s really none of my business,” Zuko replies, and Katara says, so softly only someone who has heard her voice a thousand times before in the night, only someone sitting heartbeats away from her, could hear, “What if I wanted it to be?”

           

Now he raises his head, and they look at each other for what seems like an eternity. It’s strange how familiar the planes of his face have become to her, more familiar than her own. Katara has a sudden urge to trace them with her fingers – his straight nose, his jutting cheekbones, his sharp chin, his mouth, which is softer than she’s ever seen it. His eyes are amber in the night, almost glowing at her.

           

_Who are you? And what do you want?_

           

“Katara,” he whispers, and then he blinks and looks away. For a moment, his head bowed, Katara can see a glimpse of the old man he will become, the same way she’d seen earlier, the boy he’d once been, and the thought fills her with a fierce affection, so terrible it almost brings her to her knees.

           

 _He’s mortal_ , she thinks. _He’s just like me_.

           

She shifts the hand she’s placed on Zuko’s shoulder so it is resting on his warm skin, her fingers splayed across his collarbone, the line of his throat, just barely brushing his dark hair. His pulse is rapid under her fingertips, just as fast as her own. He swallows, and she can feel it all the way up her arm.

           

“Zuko,” she whispers back, and then because she doesn’t know what else to say, she says, “Thank you.”

           

“What for?”

           

_For my ankle. For listening to me, all those long nights alone. For saving my life. For helping me find Yon Rha. For being you._

           

“For saying _stay close_ earlier,” she says instead, “instead of _stay here_.”

           

He closes his eyes. “I always want you to stay close to me, Katara,” he rasps. “Always.”

           

“I didn’t know,” Katara says, and the words come out like an accusation; her voice shakes on the word _know_. “I never knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

           

“What would you have done?” Zuko says hoarsely, looking at her. “What would you have done, if you’d known?”

           

And Katara raises her hand to Zuko’s cheek, the first time she’s touched it in months. She runs her thumb over his scar in a light caress, and it has been forever since Ba Sing Se, but suddenly they are back in the caverns, the green light shivering over their features. She can see the memory written all over Zuko’s face.

           

“This,” she whispers. “This is what I would have done.”

           

Zuko shudders, and rises up on his knees, and when he kisses her, Katara is more than ready.

 

* * *

 

Katara has never kissed anyone like this before. The previous times she’d done this, with Jet and Aang, had been awkward, fumbling things. She has never felt her blood singing in her body, surging through her veins. She has never felt like a hurricane is crouching just under her skin.

           

Zuko kisses her like he is drowning, or like maybe she is. One hand comes up to catch her jaw, and the other slides around the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

           

He runs his tongue along the part in her lips, bites down, gently, and she sighs into his mouth. She cards her hand through his hair, feeling it slip through her fingers, thick and dark and softer than she’d imagined it would be – because of course, Katara has imagined this moment before, dreamt it.

           

When they break apart, Zuko drops his head to press kisses along her jaw, down the side of her neck, slow, gentle kisses that makes her shiver. On his knees before her, they are almost the same height, but she is still high enough above him that it’s easy for Zuko to dip his head and slide his mouth down her throat, hot against her pulse. He skims the edge of her mother’s necklace with his teeth, traces her collarbone with his tongue, and Katara has to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

           

She pulls his head back up to her, brushes her thumb along his cheek again, feeling the lumpy boundary between his normal skin and his scar. She follows her thumb with her mouth, and Zuko shivers under her lips.

           

She pulls away and for a moment they stare at each other, chests heaving. His hair is mussed and his eyes are hazy and his mouth is swollen, and Katara, oh, Katara has never wanted anything more. She tangles her hands in the collar of his shirt and tries to speak around the pulse in her throat. “Here, Zuko.”

           

“What?” he says, hoarse, and she half-laughs, a little, even as she pulls him closer. “Come _here_ ,” she says, and pulls him up onto the bed with her.

           

They land in a tangle of limbs, and Zuko is tentative at first, making sure her ankle is secure, before he raises himself above her, lean arms taut as she reaches up to kiss him again, and again, and again. She runs her hands down his back and slides them back up under his shirt, feeling the firm muscles slide under the skin. Zuko growls at her touch, nips at her earlobe, licks away the sting as she arches into his mouth.

           

Then her hands reach the hem of his shirt, and he pulls away from her for a second to shrug it off. He reaches back for her, but she sits up, placing a hand on his abdomen. “Wait,” she says, and although he blinks at her in confusion, he listens to her, staying still. His chest is rising and falling rapidly under her fingertips, and Katara cannot tear her eyes away.

           

She’s seen Zuko shirtless before of course, a hundred times, a thousand times – countless training sessions with Aang before Sozin’s comet – but she’s only ever seen his body in the context of war. She has only ever seen him when he’s braced for conflict, his every muscle a piece of machinery, a weapon, a vessel for firebending.

           

On the battlefield, in his council room, Zuko is squared shoulders and firm stance, nothing like the way he is leaning towards her now, feline and languid, in a way that makes her want to slant forwards into his space. And somehow that makes the bare shoulders seem barer, the long (long) line of the back more naked.

           

Fire Lord Zuko is a performance, planned, meticulously put together. The scars get concealed, the old wounds hidden away, everything carefully prepared to be seen. But this is Zuko uncovered, and he is beautiful, his every line stark in the night.

           

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers to him, and he makes a low sound in his throat. “That’s you,” he rasps back, the muscles of his stomach flexing under her palm.

           

“Don’t argue with me,” she says, or starts to say, anyway, because at that moment he leans forward and catches her half-open mouth, his hand sliding up to thumb the hollow of her throat, sliding into her collar, and Katara thinks that maybe she’d been wrong earlier; that maybe this was a kind of battle too, only with a whole different way to surrender.

             

She surrenders.

           

Everything after that happens in a series of flashes, snapshots she captures behind her eyelids, under her lips:

           

_beat_

           

gasping into the curve of his shoulder, dark in the night -

           

_beat_

           

Zuko’s pale throat as he tips his head back, eyes closed -

           

_beat_

           

his lips warm against hers -

           

And then his hand rests on the curve of her hipbone, and moves to slide a little lower, and Katara stiffens. Zuko is battle-trained to pick up the slightest movements, driven by his ruined eye to rely more on his other senses, so immediately he draws back. His gold eyes are hazy, but he blinks hard, and when he focuses on her, his voice is clear. “Have you ever done this before?”

           

Katara bites her lip, shakes her head, and his gaze softens. He leans back against the wall, settling himself deeper into the bed, and smiles at her, properly, a smile she hasn’t seen in days, and that alone is enough to make Katara’s heart slow, affection replacing the combination of desire and nerves that pulses throughout her body. She sits up too, trying to push her hair out of her face.

           

“It’s a big step,” he says to her, gently running a hand through her hair. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for, anything you don’t want to.”

           

“And what do you want?” Katara asks. Zuko tilts his head towards her until his forehead is pressed against hers. Her eyes flutter closed.

           

“This,” he says. “You. I want to stay.”

           

This could be a mistake. This could be a dream. This could be everything Katara has been too afraid to admit she’s wanted for so long.

           

“Then stay,” she whispers, and tugs him down as they fall back onto the pillows together. She curls into his side, and he drapes his arm around her middle. Katara looks up at Zuko’s face, shadowed in the dark, and wishes it was brighter, so that she could see him properly.

           

She wants to look into his eyes, study his scar, here, closer to him than they’ve ever been. Katara has a feeling that tonight will be the end of something, or the start of something, and so she wants to open her eyes and bear some witness.

           

But she is so tired. It has been such a long day, and Zuko is so warm, and the bed is so soft. Zuko must know what she’s thinking, because he brushes her forehead with his lips – a different kiss to the ones they’ve exchanged before. This one is not filled with the rush and lightning of desire, but something warmer, something softer.

           

“Go to sleep, Katara,” he whispers, and she has never heard his voice so soft. “It’s okay. _Sleep_ ,” and so she does.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle OTPs! My catnip and my kryptonite. I've never written a battle scene before, and I suspect that fact might be painfully obvious, but I hope you guys managed to enjoy it anyway.
> 
> To the best of my knowledge, body-heat tracking was never used in the show, but I could be wrong.
> 
> I do have to make one thing very clear: in the event you have a sprained ankle, the things to do are pretty much the _exact opposite_ of what is described in this fic. I cannot stress this enough. Sprained ankles have to be treated with ice and rest, not hot massages and a roll in the hay. I took creative licence because I wanted some Sexy Ankle Times™ but please, do not look to this fic in times of medical emergencies.
> 
> Speaking of Sexy Ankle Times™:
> 
> 1\. I think I remember reading somewhere that the creators of ATLA did imply at some point that Mai and Zuko had slept together, which is my basis for making Zuko more experienced in this area than Katara, and -
> 
> 2\. I did consider making the sexy times more sexy, but the first thing that stopped me is that I don't think I'm very good at smut (you have no idea how many times I was tempted to write 'fade to black') and also I didn't think it would be true to their characters to rush into things right away, not after how long it took them to get to this point. There's no rush to do the do, kids. 
> 
> Comments and reviews are always appreciated, and thanks for reading! <3


	7. Home is the Thing with Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated, now and forever, to all of you. For everyone who's read this, and left kudos and bookmarks and especially comments - you were the ones who helped me take this last step in finishing this. A lot happened in Real Life during the second half of last year, and so I put this fic aside. And after a while I honestly thought I would never get back to it. Too much time had passed. I wasn't the same person who started this fic so long ago, so how could I be expected to finish it?
> 
> But I did. And so thank you for all your kind words, your encouragement and your enthusiasm. This fic will always have a special place in my heart, and I'm over the moon to finally be able to put it to rest. I hope you like it.

When Katara wakes, she is alone.

 

For a dizzying minute, she is disoriented – this isn’t the igloo back home in the South Pole; this isn’t her room in the palace in the Fire Nation capital – and then the memories come crashing back. She lies there in bed for a minute, as everything from last night comes back to her: the skirmish with the bandits, her fall, _this is what I would have done_ , Zuko’s lips brushing her forehead.

           

Katara sits up, and for one moment she wonders if it had all been just a dream, but the twinge in her ankle says otherwise. She reaches for the bandages on the floor, wraps her foot tight, and notices a cup of tea sitting on her bedside table. When she touches it, it is still warm, and this, more than anything, reassures Katara that last night was real, that it happened – she has seen Zuko heat a cup of tea with a touch of his hand more times than she can remember.

           

For a moment, everything feels too delicate to look at. The sunlight streaming in the through the window is the colour of his eyes.

           

There’s a cane, too, propped up next to the bed, so after Katara drinks her tea she limps out of the room into the corridor. The castle is quiet, but dimly she can hear the voices of the guards outside. It’s mid-morning – they must be getting ready to board the ship again, to go back home to the capital.

           

 _Back_ home _to the capital?_ she thinks suddenly, wryly. She wonders when she began to think of the Fire Nation that way. Maybe it’s not a question of _when_ , though. Maybe it’s a question of _who_.

           

And as if she’s conjured him, when she turns around, Zuko is there.           

           

For a moment, everything feels too delicate to look at – everything except him. For a moment he is the only real thing in the world.

           

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up.”

           

“Well,” she says. “I thought I would go looking for the new Fire Lord, since he disappeared from my room this morning, but I couldn’t find him. Oh, look.”

           

The edges of his eyes crinkle in amusement, and more than a little fondness, and Katara knows he remembers the first time she’d said that to him, all those months ago in the garden. So many memories they’ve forged, the two of them. So many things they hold between them. “I’m sorry I left this morning. I had to make sure the bandits were properly arrested. And I had to get your cane. And your tea.”

           

“Of course. Thanks for that, by the way.”

           

“You’re welcome. Also,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t want anybody to walk in and find me in your room. It wouldn’t have… I didn’t want your honour to be compromised.”

           

“Ah, yes,” Katara says. “I hear the Fire Nation takes their honour very seriously.”

           

He smiles. “Where did you hear that, then?”

           

She laughs, and he runs a hand through his hair, a little nervous. “Was last night okay, though?” he asks quietly. “Are we okay?”

           

“Last night,” she says, “was wonderful.”                                         

           

For a moment they look at each other in the silence, and then a clatter from outside causes them both to look out of the window. Zuko says, “We’re boarding the ship soon, but I think there should still be time for you to get some breakfast. Here, let me help you.”

           

Tentatively, he offers her his arm, and Katara begins to hobble downstairs, half her weight on the cane, half on his shoulder. Just before they reach the dining hall, Katara draws away and asks Zuko, “So what happens now?”

           

He doesn’t look away, and it occurs to Katara that Zuko always seems awkward until he doesn’t. “Now?” he says. “I don’t know. But,” and he touches her cheek, lightly, “I have an idea.”

           

“Really?” she says, smiling at him. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

           

“Soon. I have a few things to get sorted out first.” He pushes her, gently, into the hall. “You should eat. I’ll see you later.”

           

She doesn’t, though. Even once they’re on the boat, Zuko disappears into his rooms with his advisers, with his seneschal. She only sees him during meal times, and even then they don’t talk much – the boat is too small, with too many people around them. For the most part, Katara spends the journey back the way she did coming here, listening to the guards speak as she dangles her legs over the side of the deck.

           

(“I hear all ten of the bandits were just lying there, trussed up like chicken-monkeys,” one of the guards says to the others, as Katara listens in amusement.

           

“Are you serious? And we don’t know who did it?” says another, in wide-eyed amazement. “Well, that’s great news!”

           

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” says the first guard gravely, who Katara has already dubbed in her mind as Captain Paranoid. “You know the only thing that could’ve defeated a group of ten bandits?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Eleven of them.”

           

There is a flurry of gasps, and Katara rolls her eyes, wishing Zuko was around to hear this.)

           

When they arrive back at the palace, Zuko still doesn’t come to see her, occupied as he is with meeting his ministers. Katara doesn’t mind; she’s never been the kind of girl to fret about “boy problems”, as Ty Lee would put it, and she isn’t about to start now. Instead, she receives the letters that have arrived for her in her absence, and takes them out into the garden to read.

           

 _Hey, Sweetness_ , reads the letter from Toph. _I hope everything’s going okay with you. Are you still kicking around in the Fire Nation? Let me know where you’re going after this, so I know where to send these letters. All’s good over here. Now that the inner walls in Ba Sing Se are going down, there’s a lot of potential for new houses to be built, so I’m heading into the real estate game! Very profitable. Tell Sparky when I see him next I’m going to have a palace bigger than his._

Sokka sends her a photograph of him, Ty Lee, and Suki, all done up in full Kyoshi Warrior uniform, white face paint, green dress, fans and all, and Katara laughs out loud at the dramatic eye make-up Sokka sports as he sticks his tongue out at her. He also sends her a jar half-filled with water, which she looks at curiously, before she reads the letter.

           

 _Hey, Katara,_ he writes, _Kyoshi Island is fun! Getting my butt kicked by Kyoshi Warriors is… less so, but I’m doing good. I hope you are too. By the way, I made a detour to the South Pole before the Earth Kingdom, so I’m sending you a snowball in a jar. It’s the first snow you’ve seen in over a year, if I’m not mistaken, so you’re welcome. But really, what you’re looking at now is probably just some dirty water, so, you know, feel free to throw it out if you want. I don’t mind. I miss you. Visit SOON!_

There is nothing from Aang, but then, Katara wasn’t expecting anything from him anyway. It’s only been a few weeks, and she knows that he needs more time than that. So instead, she tips her head back and sends a message into the blue sky above her, into the clouds that, if you squint just a little, could look a little like a flying bison. _I hope you’re happy, Aang. I hope we all find grace, someday._

           

For a long, long while Katara is content to sit alone in the quiet garden, stretching out in the grass. She wonders at the peace in her heart. She remembers the night of Zuko’s coronation so many months ago, the fear in her throat when she’d thought that everyone she loved would leave her. And they _have_ left, in a way. And they haven’t.

           

She looks up when a shadow falls on her, into Iroh’s smiling face. “Master Katara,” he says peaceably. “Would you mind having some tea with me? Tea-drinking really is an activity much improved with company.”

           

“I would be honoured,” says Katara, sitting up, as the old man lowers himself to sit next to her, setting up bits and pieces on the grass before them.

             

“Jasmine or ginseng?”

             

She chooses the former, which causes the old man to chuckle. “More for me, then! Did you know that ginseng is my favourite?”

           

Katara does, actually; Zuko’s brought it up once, and she knows from looking at the records of the crown’s expenditures, those lazy nights with Zuko in the garden, that the Fire Lord buys two crates of ginseng tea every month, from different regions in the Fire Nation, and has them delivered to Iroh’s room – something she’s never remarked on, knowing how grumpy Zuko can be when teased – but she shakes her head. They sit in companionable silence as Iroh places the tea leaves in cups, pours the water, and warms the tea with a slight touch of his hand, before offering it to her.

           

She sips, letting the warmth spread through her. “This is really good, Iroh.”

           

His face lights up. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve always found jasmine to be a wonderful blend. It’s so nice to find a follow enthusiast.” He sips from his own cup, expression exaggeratedly morose. “Miss Beifong told me once that it tasted like feet, and I think I’ve never quite recovered from that.”

           

Katara laughs. “That sounds like Toph.” She watches the look on his face turn to contentment, his eyes falling to half-mast. The setting sun strokes golden fingers across his cheeks, down his throat. He and his nephew don’t look alike at all, but Katara thinks she can see a trace of Zuko in the way Iroh’s mouth softens at the edges when he is at peace, in the way he tilts his head.

           

“So did you just want to recruit a fellow jasmine lover, Iroh?” she asks after a while. “Or do I owe this honour to something else?”

           

He hums. “I just thought it would be nice to have a drink together, Master Katara. Especially since,” and he smiles at her, a little sadly, “I’ll be leaving soon.”

           

“You are?” Katara says, and she is genuinely surprised. Iroh has always been placid, always serene – for months and months she has seen him in the garden, in the library, in his room, without the slightest trace of restlessness in his demeanour. She has always thought the old man was content to stay in the Fire Nation. She cannot imagine him leaving his nephew. “Where will you go?”

           

“Ba Sing Se. The Jasmine Dragon isn’t going to open itself, you know!”

           

“Why not just open a tea shop here?” Katara asks, curious. “That way you could stay. This is your home!”

           

“Yes,” says Iroh. “And I think for some part of me, it always will be. But homes change, Master Katara. And sometimes we make new ones, wouldn’t you agree?”

           

Katara thinks about that for a moment, taking a sip. “I guess,” she says slowly.

           

“The Fire Nation _is_ my home,” Iroh says. “But there are several bad memories here for me. I think it will be nice to start fresh somewhere else. And there’s also the fact that my son is buried near Ba Sing Se, and as I get older, I find it comforting to be near him.”

           

“I’m sorry.”

           

“So am I. But life goes on.”

           

They sit together for a while longer. Iroh fills up her cup, and Katara realizes suddenly that she hasn’t wished him luck. “All the best, then,” she says. “If you think this will make you happy, I’m glad for you.” She pauses, and then she asks, “ _Are_ you happy, Iroh?”

           

He drains his cup, and smiles at her. “Ah, Master Katara. I’m happier than I’ve been for a long, long time. My nephew has been restored to his throne, and the world is at peace.” He tilts his head. “In fact, I think I’m more than happy. When you are happy, you are at peace with the present, but I find myself hopeful for the future.”

           

“That’s lovely.”

           

“It is. Hope is the thing with feathers, and all that.”

           

Katara mishears him. “Home is the thing with feathers?”

           

Iroh laughs, a great belly laugh that never fails to endear him to anyone listening. “No, no. But I like that! I like that quite a lot.” He hums. “Yes, I suppose home is the thing with feathers too, isn’t it? It builds a nest in your heart, and keeps it warm, and safe. It makes it feel like it can fly.”

           

“I was so confused after the war,” Katara tells him, because she knows, here, in the light of the sunset at the end of everything, that Iroh will understand. “I didn’t want to go back to the South Pole, and I didn’t understand why. I thought that maybe it was because it wasn’t home anymore, but if that was the case, why did I miss it so?”

           

Iroh is silent, listening, and in this, too, she can see traces of his nephew.

           

“And I guess it’s true what you said earlier. The South Pole will always be home for a part of me, but I’ve made new ones. I think,” she says, hesitantly, “I think I’ve made my home in people now, Iroh. The people I know and love.”

           

The smile the old man bestows on her is not the broad, cheerful one he wears when he is playing pai sho, or making his nephew laugh, but something softer, truer. “Just so, Master Katara. Just so.”

           

The sky around them deepens into early twilight. The stars slip out into the gathering dark. “And what will you do, my dear?” Iroh says, as they begin to gather up the cups, stand up to go back inside. “Where will you go, after this?”

           

“I’m not sure,” Katara tells him, and for the first time she doesn’t feel afraid or uncertain about not knowing. For the first time she feels hopeful, something light and feathery nestled in her chest. “But I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

Zuko is already waiting for her in the garden when she comes out after dinner, legs stretched out in front of him as he leans against the tree, and honestly, no part of her is surprised to see him there. He looks up at her, eyes bright, and when he pats the grass next to him Katara can’t help but laugh out loud. She’d been nervous about being alone with him again after everything, afraid it would be awkward, but seeing him now – the affection slides into her skin as easy as breathing, as immutable as the ocean. The way she makes her way over to him, settling herself by his side, her shoulder brushing his – it’s easy, and that’s all there really is to it, isn’t it? Someone who makes life easier to go through is everything. It is the only thing.

           

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately,” Zuko says.

           

“Don’t worry about it. You had to sort some things out. I remember.”

           

“Yes,” he says, and Katara raises an eyebrow at him, because Zuko is many things, but enigmatic isn’t usually one of them. He seems a little distracted, though, peering out into the pond, his eyes flickering around the garden.

           

“I talked to Iroh earlier,” she says instead. “We had tea in the garden.”

           

“Oh?” he says, his voice preoccupied. “That sounds nice.”

           

“It was. He told me that he was planning on going back to Ba Sing Se, though,” she says delicately. “Did you know about that?”

           

“Yeah,” Zuko says, and now he does turn to her. “He came to talk to me about it yesterday.”

           

“How do you feel about it?”

           

“I’ll miss him,” Zuko says simply, and Katara thinks, briefly, that this is not an admission Zuko would ever have made before the war, before he put on the crown. But they are all older now. So much pain and sacrifice they have gone through, and all the war has ever done is made them kind. Again she feels that terrifying wave of tenderness towards him. “But he wants to go home, Katara. And how could I deny him that? It was all I ever wanted for years.” He hesitates. “And what about you? Do you want to go home, too?”

           

 _Who are you? And what do you want?_ Finally, finally, Katara has an answer.

           

“I think,” she says to him softly, “that a person can have many homes.”

           

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are lighter than she’s ever seen them. “Do you know what Mai said to me, before my coronation? All those months ago?”

           

“I was just thinking that all this conversation needed was a mention of your ex-girlfriend,” Katara remarks, and now Zuko does smile, a little.

           

“Just ask me what she said, Katara,” he says, and Katara does.

           

“After Ba Sing Se,” he tells her, “before I left the Fire Nation to join you guys, there were nights in the palace when I couldn’t sleep. I would go out onto the balcony and just stand there for hours, until the sun came up.”

           

“So dramatic,” Katara says. “Couldn’t you just fix yourself a cup of tea or something, like normal people?”

           

He ignores her. “Sometimes, Mai would come out onto the balcony and tell me to go back inside, but I didn’t want to. I felt… freer outside, I guess. Less guilty. Anyway.”

           

Zuko looks at her then, and Katara can feel it on her skin. “Before my coronation, she asked me if you were going to be staying in the Fire Nation, and when I told her I didn’t know, she said... She asked me if I knew that whenever I stood out there on the balcony, I was always looking south.”

           

For a moment Katara cannot say anything. She is very aware of the pulse jumping in his throat. “And what did you say to that?” she asks at last.

           

“Well, I told her that my balcony was _facing_ south,” he replies, and Katara laughs, just a little. “Oh, my god, Zuko.”

             

“It _was_ ,” Zuko protests. “But then she told me that she meant it metaphorically, too. That I was always looking to… well, to where you were. That she couldn’t be with someone who was always going to want to be somewhere else. With someone else.”

           

“We weren’t even in the South Pole then.”

           

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I?”

           

“In fact, we were in the Fire Nation. You would probably have been better off looking in your backyard.”

           

“It was a metaphor!” Zuko says, throwing up his hands, and Katara has to turn away for a moment to hide her smile.

           

“For what?” she says teasingly, but they both know that there is an undercurrent of real honesty in her words. “What are you saying?”

           

“The night that we… that we spent together,” he says his voice soft, “you asked me what I wanted. And I told you that –“

           

“You wanted to stay.”

           

“Yes. But now, Katara,” Zuko says, “I want _you_ to stay. Here. With me.”

           

“Zuko –“

           

“But,” he continues, the set of his jaw determined, “I also want you to be happy, and I don’t think you could be happy just staying here with me in the Fire Nation. Would you?”

           

Katara looks at the boy before her, and she thinks she might – she thinks she might just love him, yes, but she has never let her emotions, no matter how strong, stand in the way of her ambitions. She isn’t about to start now. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Not doing what I’ve been doing here, anyway. I love working at the Healing House, you know that, but I want to be able to help people on a larger scale, not just the immediate community. I need to do more, Zuko. I need to _be_ more.”

           

“Yes,” Zuko says, and the disappointment she expects to see on his face isn’t there. Instead, he looks almost… gratified. “And do you want to go back to the South Pole too?”

           

“Sometimes,” she says, because a person can have many homes, but the South Pole will always be her first. She remembers what her father told her, all those months ago. _It has been too long since I’ve seen snow_. It is the same for her now, as well (Sokka’s dirty water jar doesn’t count). “Yes,” she says, more firmly. “Yes.”

           

“Alright,” Zuko says softly. “Then I –“ He pauses, looking around. “Wait a second. Where is that damned turtleduck, anyway?”  

           

The sudden change in subject makes Katara blink in surprise. “What?”

           

“The turtleduck! It was supposed to be here. I had a plan for this and everything.”

           

“It, uh…” Katara says, still confused. “It doesn’t spend too much time around the pond anymore, didn’t you know? Not since it discovered the palace kitchens. The last I saw it, it was terrorizing the pastry chefs.”

           

“That thing is a menace,” Zuko says irritably.

           

“That thing is _our_ menace,” Katara replies cheerily. “Anyway, what are you talking about? What plan?”

           

He sighs, looking up at the night. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

           

“When do things ever, for us?” she says, and despite himself, Zuko’s eyes soften.

           

“You’re right. Okay,” he says. “All the things I told you I needed to sort out, all the meetings with my ministers – well. I just wanted to let you know, Lady Katara, that the position for a Water Tribe ambassador to the Fire Nation has just opened up.”

           

“Ambassador?” Katara echoes, and Zuko smiles at her, properly, a real one.

           

“Yes. I know you, Katara. I know you want to help people. To change the world. And I thought this would be perfect. You’d have a position of power on the council, even more than the one you hold right now as a war hero. You could speak out on trade negotiations, foreign policies. You could go to the South Pole regularly, if you wanted.”

           

“And I could come back here,” she says softly, and he swallows. His expression is so _young_ in the moonlight, open and exposed and so, so dear to her. _I know you_ , he had said, and she thinks that this proves that he really does. _Ambassador_. Everything about it sounds just right.

           

“And you could come back here," he agrees. "That too.”

           

Katara has to shake her head for a moment, even as a smile is creeping its way across her face, even as the wind is singing across her skin. _We must be anchored_ , and she thinks that this, after so long adrift, might be the solution to secure her, finally.

           

“Isn’t there already a Water Tribe ambassador to the Fire Nation, though?” she asks, trying to keep her voice calm. “One of my father’s men, I think?”

           

“Yeah. This would be, um, a second opening.”

           

“Aren’t there usually just one ambassador for each nation?”

           

“It’s unprecedented, but there are certain perks to being a Fire Lord.”

           

“Can the crown support the expense?”

           

“Oh, were you expecting to get _paid_?” Zuko says, and they have been at this for a long time, the two of them: he dodges the wave of water she sends towards his face easily, seamless as an alibi. He laughs aloud as he takes hold of her wrists, his thumbs tracing delicate circles around her pulse until they are both smiling. The stars are glittering in the night, reflected in the shining waters of the pond. For a moment, she feels as if she is surrounded by nothing but sky.

           

“I’ll contact the unions,” she tells him breathlessly. “This is a violation of labour rights! Tyrant! Despot!”

           

“Now, _that’s_ not very diplomatic. An ambassador should do better than that.”

           

“I didn’t say I wanted the position, now, did I?”

           

“Now, see,” Zuko says, his eyes dancing, “If things had gone according to plan, you definitely would have.”

           

“What _was_ the plan?”

           

“I tied the proposal for the ambassadorial position around the turtleduck’s neck,” he says. “It was supposed to swim across the pond and present it to you. I thought it would be… cute.”

           

“It definitely would have been,” she agrees. “Shame that didn’t pan out.”

           

(But several years from now, Zuko will try this plan again and this one will work – a turtleduck swimming across the pond towards her with a very different kind of proposal tied around its neck.)

           

Zuko lets his head fall forward, just a little, and by now they are so close that this motion is enough for his forehead to rest against hers. She reaches up to slide her hand around his jaw, her thumb by his lips. “Ambassador Katara,” she says, trying it out. “I like the sound of that.”

           

“So do I,” he says, and when he speaks next, his eyes are still playful, but his voice is painfully honest. “I’m not asking you to stay, Katara,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. But I... I would like you to come back.”

           

“I’ll come back,” she tells him, and his smile is slow in coming, but she feels it across her fingers like a sun. The war is over, and for the first time, she feels like they have won. They are alive. They are together. The people she loves may be far from her now, but she will always know how to find them. They will always be her way home.

           

“Zuko,” she says, “I’ll come home.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti* IT IS DONE. By Jove, it's done. It may be saccharine as all-get-out, but it's done.
> 
> I'm not saying that Iroh is Emily Dickinson, but I _am_ saying we have never seen the two of them in the same room *adjusts tinfoil hat*
> 
> If you've managed to put up with me this long, - thank you, thank you for reading <3


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